


Undefined Definitives

by hannibae



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Dirty Talk, Fluff, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rimming, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26591983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibae/pseuds/hannibae
Summary: "How did arch rivals Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson find themselves romantically involved? I thought you hated him. Everyone thinks you hate him."Alex shrugs. A pause. Another shrug. He's  so tired. “He watches the weather.” It comes out around a sigh, like he’s wistful about it. Which, he is, but he won’t give Burr the satisfaction of knowing that.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 199





	Undefined Definitives

**Author's Note:**

> this very quickly spiraled out of control. it was supposed to be a short sickfic. but here's 21k of domesticity instead? enjoy!

It should be noted that Alexander Hamilton is a hypocrite. He is well aware of this fact. 

That does not, however, mean that it gives Thomas the right to just waltz up to him as soon as he shows up at work, give him a once-over, and announce rather loudly that he looks like shit. 

"Fuck you," he hisses, full of venom, sniffling pitifully. 

He woke up definitely running a fever this morning, but there's an article he's got to get done before this afternoon to meet his deadline and Washington had scheduled a meeting for this morning that Alex swears lasted six hours and got nowhere. Plus, he's fine, he's just got a cold or something. 

It's nothing. He survived worse than this as a  _ child-- _ he'll be  _ fine _ . 

It still doesn't mean Thomas gets to be mean to him. So he pouts a little bit, leans into the pressure when Thomas puts a hand on his forehead and frowns, huffs. 

"You need to go home before you get everyone sick," he says, stern and serious, and Alex shrinks into his desk chair. 

"I'm fine," he insists, saddling up a little bit closer, trying not to lean into Thomas any more than he already has. They're still trying to be discreet about the fact that their seemingly endless disgust for each other as intellectual rivals maybe has turned into fondness and comfort and a little bit like home instead. It's been nearly a year of actually dating and living together, and Alex doesn't think anyone knows outside of Lafayette because he's remained neutral ground for both of them since the beginning. They're doing a good job of keeping things subtle. 

Except for now, when Alex is sick and would like nothing more than to strip Thomas of that godawful silk shirt and bury his face in the dip of his collarbone so he can inhale the scent of his lemon and rosemary soap while he naps for a few hours. 

But, he digresses. 

He's a hypocrite. He feels an actual swell of anger when Thomas teases him even though just yesterday Alex had poked fun at the way Thomas had stumbled over his own feet down the hall to Washington's office. Hell, the other day he announced to the entire staff that Thomas was nothing short of a brainwashed, backwards-thinking dullard that just so happened to be raised swaddled in cashmere and bathed in lavender milk as a baby despite being no more of a socialite than the acne-ridden teenager who made Alex his coffee at Starbucks that morning. 

Still. Thomas being cruel to him in his time of suffering stings. 

So he glares up at him when he realizes he's hurt and swats his hand away. Thomas furrows his brows for just a second before realizing where they are and what he's doing and standing a little taller, dropping his hand to his side again.

Nobody is around, so he clears his throat and says, "I'll make soup for dinner tonight, and you will eat at least one bowl of it or I'll force-feed it to you with my bare hands, Alexander." 

And really, that's final, so Alex is left to just nod and roll his eyes as Thomas takes his leave, satisfied for now. 

He does feel like shit. He does. It's just that he can't miss work right now, not when the political climate is reaching new levels of heated and everyone is working twelve hour days to make sure everything is being reported factually and tactfully. And Thomas is the lead editor, so he  _ gets _ it even if he's not happy with Alex's decision. They've been working together long enough now that he knows Alex isn't going to just take a day off. 

Or, for that matter, a break, so his attempts later in the day of bribing Alex away from his desk are futile, no matter how many texts he sends about baking him his favorite cookies tonight if he just steps away from the computer long enough to put something in his body that isn't coffee. He gets an unamused, " _ No _ ," in return when he asks if Thomas was volunteering a specific part of himself for that task. 

And then a,  _ "I won't be offering any of those particular services of mine until you aren't made entirely of mucus." _

_ "Only 75%, thx,"  _ he sends back, plopping his phone down on his desk and stretching to crack his spine where it feels the most tense. 

All Thomas sends in return is, " _ Eat the lunch I packed you, Alexander."  _

He wants to be annoyed, tries with the little bit of energy he has left in him, but he can't. All he feels is warmth and care, and he wonders briefly if it'll ever stop seeming weird for him. 

That's it, though, all of his energy reserves have been tapped, so he stands from his desk and meanders his way through the building to the breakroom. 

There are a few people already in here, making coffee and heating lunches. 

Alex makes his way to the fridge, digs out the familiar lunchbox that Thomas always has packed for him. There's a simple lunch today, some sort of salad, and Alex hums a little when he recognizes it as the salad Thomas made for dinner last night that Alex said he liked so much. Something with feta and pecans and mandarins. 

It's maybe a little bit odd, isn't it? That he's allowed another grown man to quite literally spoil him this much. Because that's what he is:  _ spoiled _ . 

He's spoiled for any other person should Thomas get enough of him one day. They've developed such a comfortable relationship at this point, going through the routine of their life together with such ease, that Alex doesn't think he's the same person he was before Thomas. The thought should be scary by all accounts, but mostly it's nice. 

And he's smiling into his salad when Aaron fucking Burr drops his immaculate ass into the chair next to Alex with a weirdly ambitious smile on his face. 

"Burr," Alex says, nodding by way of greeting as he takes another bite of salad. 

"Alexander," Aaron starts, his grin thinning out as he contemplates his next statement between breaths. "Would it be very rude of me to ask why you're eating Jefferson's lunch?"

Alex raises an eyebrow at him. His pulse flutters for just a second, his guts tightening. But he's used to weird questions, especially from Burr's perpetually nosy journalism degree coated existence. So he feigns confusion as he searches the lunchbox dramatically, looking for a clue. "Don't see Jefferson's name on it anywhere."

"I saw him come in carrying that lunchbox this morning." 

Fucking  _ Christ _ . 

"We have the same lunchbox. It's a pretty common lunchbox." He stabs one of those fancy cherry tomatoes that comes in like four different colors and bites into it happily. 

Aaron narrows his eyes at him for just a second, face trying to figure out what expression it wants to land on. He settles on neutral, lips pulled back in a soft grin. And after a pause he says, "You two seem to be being...nicer to each other these days." 

"Are you trying to get a fucking  _ scoop _ out of me, Burr?" And he's laughing now because it's like he's on a job right now, trying to put Alex at ease and sidestep around the real question he wants to ask. "Look, there's really nothing new or special going on between me and Thomas, so--" 

"I heard him telling you he's making you soup tonight as I was passing in the hall," he says, finally coming out with the fucking truth. Alex sighs heavily, too tired for this right now. He rubs over his face with one of his hands. 

"We live together, okay? Will you leave me alone now?" 

But now he just looks more confused and Alex mentally begs any and everything in the universe that may be keeping an eye on him for this to be over already. Why him, Gods? What did he do to have to put up with the fucking plague and Aaron Burr's investigation into his relationship with Thomas  _ on the same fucking day _ ? 

You know? He does his taxes, he doesn't drink that much, he helps the homeless when he can, he supports and backs humanitarian causes as vocally as he can on his very public platform. What did he do to deserve h-- 

"Why?" Burr asks. His voice, dancing with laughter that makes his eyes go bright and wide, is shaking just a little bit now as he tries to hold it in. 

He's too tired for this! He's exhausted! And he feels like absolute shit! 

So he says, "Because we're dating! Is that a satisfactory answer for your grubby little reporter paws, Aaron?" 

"Well holy shit," he says, sitting back in his seat, looking smug. "How did arch rivals Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson find themselves romantically involved? I thought you hated him. Everyone thinks you hate him." 

Alex shrugs. A pause. Another shrug. He's so tired. “He watches the weather.” It comes out around a sigh, like he’s  _ wistful _ about it. Which, he is, but he won’t give Burr the satisfaction of knowing that. 

“What?” Aaron asks, brow furrowed, obviously confused again. 

He can’t help the way his arms flap in frustration. “He watches the weather! I-- I forget to make time for it, but he always does. Every morning. So he makes sure to tell me if the weather will get bad so it doesn’t catch me off-guard.” 

“You're dating Jefferson because he watches the weather?” 

“Sure,” Alex spits, because now he’s  _ annoyed _ . “Are we done here? I’ve got shit to do.” 

"I'm just trying to figure out how you two go from screaming at each other to  _ living _ together, is all," Aaron says, arms coming up, palms out in defense. 

And now Alex has a headache, starting right at the bridge of his nose and spanning behind his temples. He sucks in a breath and fights back a coughing fit, notices how Burr furrows his brow, waiting for the signature rant, but Alex doesn't have much fight left in him right now. He kind of feels a lot like he shouldn't be here anymore. Like he should have taken the advice of one Thomas Jefferson and gone home earlier. 

So instead, he deflates and shrugs again. "We still argue about politics. Doesn't mean we can't be civil otherwise." 

It's Aaron's turn to look frustrated, and Alex can't help the snort he lets out. It earns him a glare in return, a sneer, and, "You two have  _ never _ been civil. About anything." 

"Are we done?" 

Because Alex? Alex is done. In fact, he's going to go home. He's freezing and sweaty all at once, and this salad is tasting less and less appetizing. 

"You look like shit," Burr tells him, and he doesn't sound cocky and sure of himself like Thomas had. It infuriates Alex. If he's going to be insulted, it damn well better be worth his time. 

So he stands probably way too abruptly, gathers his things, and says, "If you tell anybody I'm going to break your fucking nose, by the way." 

"Have a good day, Hamilton," Burr calls after him as he's walking away, grumbling under his breath all the way to Thomas's office. 

And when he swings open the door without knocking, finds him on the phone, twirling the cord around his fingers, he plops himself down, tired and dejected, into the uncomfortable chair he's got in front of his desk. 

Alex only half listens to the conversation as it goes on, not really focusing on getting any real words out of it but waiting to hear when he ends it. He might be pouting, but the last thing he's going to do is admit it. 

Thomas leans back in his chair and hums, the phone safely back in its cradle. 

"Burr knows," Alex says, sighing heavily. When he tilts his head back, he swims a little bit, so he sits up again with a grunt. "Ruined my fucking salad. Thank you, by the way." 

"Well, it was bound to happen eventually," Thomas drawls. "We can count on everyone else finding out soon, too." 

"Are you okay with that?" He's pretty sure he knows the answer he's going to get, so he's only asking out of courtesy for his partner. 

"It'll certainly make work less exhausting," is what he says, and that's-- 

Well, that's not the answer he was expecting at all, if he's honest. He was waiting for sarcasm about how they can't really do anything about it regardless. So Alex is a caught off guard. 

He's shaking a bit, he realizes. And god, but he's fucking exhausted. He might actually pass out. Even in this uncomfortable chair that Thomas put here specifically so people don't linger in his office, the idea of taking a nap for the next six hours is the most appealing thing he's heard in a long time. 

"Thomas, I think I need to go home." He sniffles, body aching.

Just barely, he hears Thomas sigh in that way he does when he's concerned. "Alright, darlin'," he says, soft and sweet in a way he isn't allowed to be at work, "let's get you home, then." 

\-- 

"What'd you tell Washington?" Alex asks. 

Thomas has the heater on in the car and has Alex bundled up tightly in not only Alex's coat but also Thomas's, which is made of a higher quality fabric than Alex's and is possibly the most comfortable thing Alex has ever touched. 

Both of them leaving work on the same day is basically telling everyone they're dating. Or at least that they don't hate each other all that much after all. 

He's only sort of wanting to know the answer, so when Thomas reaches over to lace his fingers with Alex's and says, "Don't worry about it, okay?" Alex doesn't worry about it. 

He nestles further down into the buttery soft leather of Thomas's luxury car and soaks in the warmth he's being cradled in. Thomas's hand is soft and cool in his own that's probably clammy and gross and he feels thankful that he isn't saying anything about how Alex is clinging to him right now. 

Alex isn't great at being sick. 

The truth of the matter is that he's not good at taking care of himself while he's sick. And he's not good at taking care of other people when they're sick either, because it's a little bit traumatic for him to see someone he loves while they're under the weather. So he clams up and shuts down and gets embarrassed as fuck about it when it's over. 

_ We all have things that fuck us up when we're kids, right? _ he'd asked Thomas when it came up. 

And, just like how he watches the weather for Alex because he knows he forgets and he knows storms freak him out, Thomas takes over when either of them are sick. He arranges meals, cleans, has necessities delivered, and creates a genuinely comfortable and healing home to get better in. They've learned each other. 

They've adapted and adjusted to allow the other space in their lives. 

Where Alex concaves, Thomas convexes, and it fucking  _ works _ , okay? 

Alex doesn't fall asleep, but he does let his eyes close and the sounds of the car and Thomas humming along to the radio playing softly lull him into some weird trance. By the time they're pulling into the driveway of their home, he's feeling-- 

Well, not better. Calmer. More accepting of his fate. 

"Carry me," he teases, lolling his head to the side to get a good look at the way Thomas raises his eyebrows and peers at Alex over his sunglasses. 

He shuts the car off, chuckling lowly. "You're not dead yet." 

"You'll only carry me when I'm dead?" he says, trying his best to sound appalled. It probably comes out as more of a whine, but whatever. 

"Or if your legs fell off," Thomas compromises with a grin. "Come on. What I will do is run you a bath."

"Your legs don't just fall off," Alex huffs. "So what you're saying is you'd only carry me if something terrible happened to me. What about if we get married, huh?" 

"Unless there's something you'd like to tell me, last we talked, you wouldn't exactly be my  _ bride _ , Alexander.” 

Alex sighs again, weary and tired, but stands on wobbly legs and allows Thomas to loop their arms together as they walk into the house. 

Thomas does draw him a bath, aromatic and nearly boiling hot just how Alex likes it. He even goes so far as to actually sit in the bathroom with him while he bathes. 

“So you don’t drown,” he says, flipping through his book and looking down over the rim of his glasses at Alex. 

He looks like a dream in the steam of the bathroom, in a white shirt unbuttoned nearly to his navel and loose-fitting flowy pants. Barefoot, reading a book on economy. He’s Alex’s actual wet dream. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, dipping down lower into the absolutely massive bathtub Thomas claims has healing powers. He feels like he’s in a big bowl of lemon and rosemary scented soup. 

Thomas smiles, doesn’t look away from his book. But he does reach over blindly and run his fingers through Alex’s wet hair, nails gently scratching at his scalp. After a beat, Alex tries again, “What do you find attractive about me?” 

He’s just baiting him. When he feels sick, he fishes for compliments to counterbalance the yucky feeling. And, lucky for him, Thomas typically indulges him. 

He tells Alex, “Your inability to let there be a moment of silence.” 

So not today, it seems. With a grin on his face, Alex sinks below the surface of the water and lets the warmth fully encase him. He’s spent all day feeling a little bit floaty, a little bit like he was swimming, so it feels right. He stays down until his lungs burn. 

When he slides back up, fills his lungs with air again, Thomas says, “I said not to drown, Alex.” 

“I didn’t drown. Not even a little bit,” Alex promises. 

“Do you want me to get you some pajamas picked out or do you want to do that yourself?” 

It’s-- 

Shaped weirdly, coming out of his mouth, not quite like he’s bored, like Alex knows he wants it to be. Almost like he’s hoping for something. 

Thomas may not have taken the bait earlier, but Alex takes his, and says, “You can pick some out.” 

There’s a soft smile once Thomas closes his book, uncrosses his legs. He leans over to press a kiss to the top of Alex’s head before he stands and heads back into the bedroom. 

Alex is a smart man; that’s something nobody can argue with. So he has a pretty firm grasp on what this is, and he’s comfortable enough to let it happen. Thomas is almost his caregiver on a normal day with all the packed lunches and making sure he’s taking time for himself, anyway, so it’s not much of a stretch to give him small pleasures like picking out Alex’s night clothes for him. 

It still settles in his bones as odd, every so often. When he realizes that he’s feeling that way, he shakes himself out of it because it’s just some weird rooted feeling of being a burden that does that to him. But Thomas is the first of his romantic partners to make Alex feel like it’s second nature to take care of him. Sometimes Alex swears he’d be content if he quit his job and took care of the  _ estate  _ or something while Alex worked. 

They could move back to Virginia, close the contract that’s got Monticello as a tourist attraction, adopt fifty or so orphans, and Thomas would happily stay home and take care of everything while Alex pursued a career in politics. He knows that for a fact. 

This makes sense, is what he’s realizing. This little thing of his, where he’s draping Alex in his coat and whisking him away from work at the expense of their well-kept year long secret finally getting out. (Which, Alex will admit, it’s time.) 

It’s just a cold. He’ll feel fine come morning after some hot tea and enough Nyquil to put down a horse. 

He’s fine. 

He’s still going to let Thomas take care of him, though. 

The pajamas Thomas picks out are a pair he bought Alex for Christmas last year. They’re warm and thick and literally the most expensive clothes Alex owns, so he was planning on only wearing them for Christmas. Make them special. 

But Thomas helps him dry off, get dressed, and huffs out a, “I spent good money on these and you’ve never even worn them, have you?” 

“No,” Alex admits, a little sheepish. “They’re special! I was going to make them holiday-only pajamas.” 

“Then I’m buying you more.” It’s said with vindication, and Alex laughs a bit too hard, ends up being shoved onto the bed by a sneering Thomas. “I’ll get you some hot pink ones.” 

Alex stretches out across the bed with a groan. He feels good, better. “You know,” he starts around a yawn, “most people buy their partners lingerie.” 

A hand runs up his thigh and Alex shivers. “I can buy you some matching panties if you really want.” 

“Mm,” Alex hums, letting his eyes fall shut. “Thought you said no services til I wasn’t mucusy.” 

Thomas laughs, his hand sliding back off of Alex’s thigh. When he peeks an eye open, he’s met with Thomas tugging his shirt off, top drawer of the dresser open while he looks for a t-shirt to sleep in. “I did, and I meant it,” he says, and now he’s slipping his pants off, and it’s unfair. 

“Such cruelty,” Alex says, letting out a heavy breath and letting his eyes fall shut again. 

“I’m going get you some medicine and then we’re taking a nap,” Thomas announces, but Alex really doesn’t care. As long as he comes back and lets Alex curl in close, he doesn’t much care beyond that. 

He’s nearly asleep by the time Thomas gets back, spread out across the bed and sprawling so magnificently that Thomas actually laughs at him. It’s a California King bed, and he’s not exactly the biggest man, so he’s certain there’s still room for Thomas. Without opening his eyes, he tells him, “It’s not nice to make fun of the infirmed, you know.” 

“Alexander Hamilton being a drama queen; who would have thought?” That hand is back on his thigh, but this time it’s met with a, “Sit up and drink this shit so you actually sleep this fever away.” 

“That’s not how it works, I’m sure,” Alex snorts, but listens nonetheless. 

Thomas eyes him, kneeling on the bed and holding a tiny medicine shot glass full of purple. Alex doesn’t think before he downs it, and then he leans forward too quickly to be stopped, presses a quick, dry kiss to Thomas’s mouth. 

“You’re going to get me sick, and I’m not going to be happy about it,” Thomas scolds, and turns to put the cup on his bedside table along with his glasses and phone before he’s ushering Alex further up the bed and situating both of them in their normal spots. 

Alex hums gently as he settles down, tugging Thomas closer to him so he’s spooned up behind him, warm and good and safe. “It was one little kiss, Jefferson, I think you’ll be fine.” 

“ _ Hamilton _ ,” he teases, digging his fingers into Alex’s side just so he’ll squirm before sliding that hand around to rest on his belly, under his shirt so it’s skin-on-skin. 

It’s warm. Alex feels good. 

He feels better. 

He never used to sleep well before he met Thomas. Most of his other partners complained that he moved too much, never actually slept, but he doesn’t have to worry about that with Thomas. Maybe it’s because Thomas isn’t trying to keep up with Alex, and he doesn’t expect Alex to slow his pace for him. There’s something to be said for landing on common ground, meeting in the middle and knowing where the other person stands, always, by the end of the day. And crawling into bed with that person, being held in place just loose enough that he could get out without disturbing him if he wanted but tight enough to let him know he doesn’t want him to is-- 

It’s good. 

It’s home, and he burrows himself further into the blankets, into the scent of lemon and rosemary that he’s been wanting all day, before murmuring, “Love you.” 

“I love you.” It’s pressed into the back of his head, as easy as breathing. 

\-- 

He wakes up alone in bed, still warm, but not cradled or comforted, and he’s briefly annoyed before realizing the lights are on under the door. 

Which means one of two things: one, Thomas is cooking, or two, Thomas is watching The Bachelor. 

Alex still feels...bad. His head is woozy and his chest hurts with every breath he takes. His throat is starting to feel scratchy. When he coughs, it’s deep and rattling, and once he starts, he can’t stop.

God. He’s had enough of this, truly. It’s bullshit, and he doesn’t have the time to be laid up in bed hacking his lungs out. Not when he’s got a half-finished article sitting in his laptop at work and Washington is expecting him to get assignments out to everyone by tomorrow like he always does, and-- 

And-- 

The door opens, and Thomas is squinting at him through the dark, a tall, thin, oasis in a desert made entirely of Alex’s own hot breath as he coughs and coughs and coughs. He rushes over, and Alex almost shoos him away until he realizes he truly can’t stop coughing. 

A rush of panic has him grasping at Thomas’s arms when he reaches out to pat at Alex’s back. He’s talking, saying something that Alex can’t really make out in the frenzy of trying to catch his breath, but he hits Alex on the back firmly a few times, breaks up whatever it is that Alex’s lungs can’t manage. 

His eyes are watering when he stops, and his mouth tastes a little bit like blood, but Thomas’s cool hand is on his forehead, so he could be worse. 

“You’re burning up,” he tsks, sounding calm and collected. “I’ll be right back.” 

He leaves, and it’s a little bit pitiful how that somehow hurts more than the coughing did. But he’s back before Alex really gets to feel too sorry for himself, holding a cold glass of water, more Nyquil, and a thermometer. 

He flips the lights on, uses the ridiculous dimmer to make it more comfortable for Alex, and sticks the thermometer in his mouth unceremoniously. For a beat, Alex wants to feel ridiculous, but he doesn’t. God, he doesn’t. 

He feels fucking cared for. 

By Thomas Jefferson. 

And his and Burr’s conversation is rushing back to him with a fury right as the thermometer beeps, and he’s talking before Thomas can even really pull it out of his mouth, saying, “Burr can kiss my ass.” 

“Nobody’s kissing that ass any time soon, I hate to tell you,” and he’s turning for Alex to see that he’s running a full-blown fever. “One-oh-one point seven,” he says. And then, “Drink this whole thing, please,” before he hands Alex the water. 

It’s cold and it feels nice on his throat, and he swallows all of it in one gulp. 

“Burr said everyone thinks we hate each other,” Alex continues. 

“Did you expect something else?” He’s pouring more Nyquil into that tiny shot glass, not looking at Alex and it’s driving him a little bit nuts. 

So he sucks in a breath before he snaps, “Would you look at me?” as he grabs the shot glass from Thomas’s hand and downs it in one smooth motion. 

Immediately, Thomas listens, eyes a little bit wide, a little bit wild with worry, and  _ oh _ . “You know it’s okay, right?” 

“Yeah,” Thomas says, flippant and not at all convincing. 

“Thomas,” Alex starts. 

“I know, Alexander.” He kisses Alex’s forehead, and it’s almost a good enough answer for Alex, but not quite. 

So he tries again, gets his hands on Thomas’s arms and promises, “Thomas, I’m okay with everyone knowing.” 

"Yeah?" he breathes, and Alex feels his guts flutter a little at the sound of Thomas's accent slipping through like it so rarely does. 

"Yeah," Alex promises, and he fights back the urge to shrug. He hadn’t realized Thomas was so worried. This worried, that he’d avoid looking at Alex in case he wants to slip away from him or something. There’s part of him that wants to laugh, but he’s not that cruel, even to the man everyone thinks he hates. 

Eventually Thomas clears his throat, gives Alex a careful look before saying, “I didn’t think I was that worried about it.” 

“Well, you were, apparently.” And Alex grabs his hand and pulls it to his mouth to press a gentle kiss there. “It’s fine. I know I’m...not the  _ best  _ with this sort of stuff, but. It’s fine, I swear it.” 

“Just don’t go running your mouth when people ask you questions about me that piss you off,” Thomas says, eyebrows raising. “The last thing I need is Laurens asking me about my dick in the middle of a staff meeting.” 

_ Fuck _ . He hadn’t even-- 

He hadn’t thought of John, and that’s shitty in and of itself. But the idea that now he’s got to tell his best friend about his secret relationship he’s had for over a year now  _ and  _ tell him that  _ Aaron Burr _ knew about it before he did-- 

He’s fucked. 

Well and truly, and to be quite frank,  _ thoroughly  _ fucked. 

He’s going to owe Laurens so many cases of beer before he even thinks about forgiving Alex. 

Thomas must be able to sense his internal conflict, because his hands manage to wriggle themselves out of Alex’s grasp and find their way to the sides of his face, pulling him in to kiss him on the forehead. When he pulls away, he’s frowning, and Alex sniffles. 

His head throbs. He still feels like shit. He’s unsure why he thought otherwise. 

“I can’t convince you to go to a doctor, can I?” He says it like he already knows the answer, so Alex just flops himself back down onto the bed, sprawling his legs out to dangle around Thomas’s knees off the side. 

“Washington isn’t going to fire us, is he?” 

And Thomas actually snorts, indelicate and mean, and if Alex had the energy to sit back up again, he’d do something about it. Instead, he just lifts a pathetic arm and flips him off. 

“I’m pretty sure if he hasn’t fired us yet, there isn’t much we can do that will push him over the brink.” There are hands on his thighs, familiar and comforting. Thumbs rubbing circles in the soft material of his pants, and Alex groans a little bit. 

He’s not about to pop a boner, but he does get a little bit distracted. It’s nice, is all. He says, “Will you touch me some more?” and it sounds so pitiful Alex maybe blushes with it. 

But it earns him Thomas nuzzling his nose into the soft part of his stomach, the warm press of his mouth through his shirt leaving him a little bit lightheaded. Or maybe it’s the Nyquil. Either way, he lets himself sink further into the mattress, lets Thomas skim his hands over the swells and curves of his body like he’s been doing for so long it feels like second nature. 

He definitely falls asleep, hears Thomas murmuring kindness into his skin like he can heal him from the outside in that way, and dreams about those hands on his skin, mending him back together. 

\--

"I'm not fucking you, Alexander," Thomas says, but he's hand-feeding Alex figs and crackers with brie in bed like they live in a renaissance painting, and it's  _ unfair _ . Alex groans, and Thomas laughs, and it's the cruelest sound Alex has ever heard right up until he's saying, "I'm not fucking you until you go to the doctor." 

"Oh, come on! That's unfair!" 

Another bite of food, and this time he has to watch Thomas lick fig juice from the palm of his hand after Alex obediently accepts the mouthful. "It's unfair of me not to want to get sick, too?" 

"No," Alex huffs around a mouthful of food. "It's unfair of you to exploit my discomfort with a situation for sexual favors. That's extortion. I'm not about to stand here and be extorted." 

"You're sitting," Thomas reminds him. "In bed, wrapped in silk pajamas and being fed imported figs by hand by a man who loves you very much. Not exactly extortion." 

"I didn't ask you to hand feed me," Alex grumbles. But he did ask for the pajamas. And the figs, because he knew they were in the fridge and cold, juicy figs sounded so good it's quite possibly the reason he's so horny to begin with. He isn't going to tell Thomas that because then he'll have more ammunition to pick on Alex while he's already down. 

"I can stop," Thomas drawls, taking the bite he's got pinched between his fingers for himself. He looks at Alex with his eyebrows up, out of the corner of his eyes as he chews. 

Alex sighs a bit dramatically and reaches behind him to fluff up the pillow he's perched against. 

"You really think Washington is going to let you take more time off?" 

Thomas had called in this morning for both of them, sort of pulling the bandaid off as quickly and painlessly as possible. With the promise of Thomas getting what he can get done from home, Washington wished them both well and didn't ask any other questions. 

And truly, Alex is still feeling pretty awful. His body aches, he still has a pretty terrible cough, and he's consistently run a fever.

It's not ideal. 

But he's going to be  _ fine _ . He is. 

He has to be. And part of that is getting back to work. Getting his hands back on the things happening in politics and circling a story like sharks after blood is what he needs. It's what keeps him going. 

_ Writing _ is what keeps him going. Taking it easy is not. 

So he's trying because Thomas deserves for him to at least put in some effort into being a good partner, but he isn't going to stop pleading his case. 

“As long as I get my work done from home, yes.” And there’s another bite being held out for him, so Alex leans forward and takes it, opening his mouth wide enough to ‘accidentally’ get the very tips of Thomas’s fingers as well. It’s a cheap shot, but it was there, so he took it. 

“We can go back tomorrow,” Alex says, and he does shrug this time. 

Thomas shoots him a look, just for a second, before turning his attention back to their meal, and saying, “Stop talking with your mouth full, please.” 

“What if I don’t?” he asks, but swallows before he gets an answer. 

All he gets in reply is a hum, self-satisfied, like Thomas knows he just won. 

“Look, I’m not going to a doctor, alright? I know you’re worried, and that it’s coming from a good place, but that’s not something I’m going to compromise on,” Alex says, reaching for another fig on his own, body stretching across Thomas, and he has to stop once he lays back against the pillow because he gets lightheaded and woozy. 

Thomas ignores him for a second, just enough for Alex to feel more stable, and it’s sweet, really. But then he says, “If your fever goes above one-oh-two, I’m taking you to a damn doctor, Alexander.” 

“One-oh-four,” Alex says. He went to law school for a minute, too; he can play this game. 

Thomas glares at him, and for a beat, Alex is reminded of meetings spent like this, back when they got under each others’ skin. “One-oh-two. No compromise.” 

“Four is when your brain starts melting or something. Anything before that, and I’m fine. Four.” 

“Alex,” Thomas warns, his voice getting as short as his patience.

And Alex laughs a little, until it hurts in his chest to do so. “Look, you’re not my dad. I’m a grown man, and I’m telling you I won’t go to the doctor until I feel as though I’m putting myself in real danger by not doing so. I’m not asking you.” 

“I might not be your dad, but I am the person taking care of you, and I don’t know if you realized or not, but the second I stop taking care of you,  _ you  _ stop taking care of you, too.” He sounds mad, in a way that he hasn’t in a long time. “I know about your aversion, okay? And I understand the discomfort; I can empathize. But goddamnit, Alexander, you can deal with shitty American health care for an hour of your life so I can have some peace of mind.” 

There’s a pause, and another fig being held out for him as an olive branch. Alex lets it hover between them while he thinks. 

On one hand, Thomas is right. He is the one taking care of Alex  _ because of _ Alex’s known aversion to doctors. He knows about Alex’s past, about his mom, about everything. He knows. 

Alex spent two hours one night, shitfaced, getting snot in Thomas’s expensive wool coat crying about it all. So he has a point. 

But on the other hand, Alex should be allowed to make decisions regarding his health. And he supposes that Thomas isn’t taking away his right to do that, but adding an amendment to his strict personal policies. But it still feels a little bit like he’s relinquishing control. It feels a little weird in his guts. 

It’s a compromise, right? That’s what this is?

He leans forward and sucks the fig out of Thomas’s fingers. 

“Thank you,” Thomas murmurs, and Alex curls in a little closer with a hum. 

\--

The thing about John is that he gets his feelings hurt. Alex tries very hard to make sure he doesn’t do that to him, but someone as passionate as John is difficult to constantly appease. 

Logically, this conversation should have been one he was prepared for. He’s had more than a year to prepare for it. Two, if he wants to get really technical. 

Instead, he’s drowsy from accidentally taking Nyquil instead of Dayquil and his nose is raw from blowing it so much, bundled in one of Thomas’s massive robes, and listening to John rant about how betrayed he feels that Alex didn’t think he could confide in him about this-- which is not exactly a conversation he was at all prepared for right now, apparently. He’s certain it’s got to do with the fever he’s still running and the fact that he feels like he’s going to fall asleep any second now. 

“John,” Alex murmurs, trying to cut him off mid-sentence about how Burr didn’t deserve to know, but John? John did, because John’s been there for Alex through a lot, and it stings that he doesn’t trust him with this and-- “Hey? John? John, man, listen for a second, hey, hey,” and he lets his eyes fall shut because he’s fucking exhausted. John’s words skitter to a lull, and he sounds so dejected and hurt, and Alex tries caring. 

“We just wanted some time to get used to it before we told anyone,” he says, his mouth feeling heavier and heavier. His head feels heavy, his eyes feel heavy, his jaw feels heavy. Fuck, he’s not going to last long. “And I love you, but I’m probably going to pass out soon.” 

He knows the look John inevitably has on his face, and it’s one of fear that Alex is going to die or something, so he cracks his eyes open and explains, “I took Nyquil instead of Dayquil on accident.” 

“They’re two different colors,” John snorts. 

“Yeah, but,” and he clears his throat, sludging through phlegm, “but Thomas has been doing it all for me, and I feel like shit.” 

“You look like shit,” John says. He sounds mad. He’s probably got a right to be, but Alex doesn’t have the fight in him right now, so he shrugs. 

“C’est la vie, you know?” 

There’s another soft laugh, and a pause where Alex swears his head turns into a fishbowl, and then John is saying, “Should I call Jefferson to come help you?” 

“No, no,” Alex says, shooing at him, moving so he can stand, supporting his weight on the table. He tugs the robe to him tighter, wishes he’d thought to grab the big fluffy comforter he’s spent the last few days wrapped in, too. “Hey, look. I’m sorry, okay? I know it was a shitty friend move on my part; I just-- I wanted to make sure it was real, you know? I had to do it without any outside opinions to know if my feelings were...honest. Do you at least understand? You can still be mad.” 

There’s a pause, and Alex wipes at his forehead, uses one hand to push his hair out of his face, grimacing at the pressure of his sinuses in his temples. 

And John sighs, loud and frustrated, but he says, “Yeah, I understand. I’m only mad for today, okay? Tomorrow I’ll be fine.” 

“You’re allowed to be,” Alex promises, and he clears his throat again, pushing himself off the table so he can stand up straight. “I’m gonna go to sleep now, okay?”

“Please do,” John laughs, not unkindly. “Be sure not to die, yeah?” 

Alex doesn’t dignify him with a real response, just flips him off on his way out the kitchen. He lets the warm, honey sound of John’s laughter follow him into the bedroom. 

Thomas is reading that book again, glasses perched on his face, looking like he’s trying hard to distract himself from Alex and John’s conversation he was told he didn’t have to be a part of. There’s a little bit of color on his cheeks when Alex walks in, and he imagines it probably has to do with the fact that Alex looks like death warmed over and he’s anxious about the whole thing already. 

“Hey,” Alex croaks, sounding pitiful even to his own ears. 

“Hey,” Thomas murmurs back. And he pats the bed next to him, moves to put the book on the bedside table. As Alex is crawling into bed, the robe being shucked and dropped unceremoniously onto the floor on his way, he takes his glasses off and puts them on top of the book. 

Alex, burrowing into his chest, says, “John’s mad at me.” 

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, and he sounds sincere. 

There’s a shrug, because that’s all Alex has the energy for. A pause. Then, “I’m glad we didn’t tell anyone until now.” 

Thomas hums in thought. “You’re not worried it’s going to have made things harder in the end?” 

“God, no. I wouldn’t have ever admitted any feelings I developed for you if all my friends knew. It was bad enough I had Gilbert to worry about inviting me to monthly brunch to discuss how our relationship was affecting my mental health.” 

“He did that with you, too?” There’s a kiss pressed to the side of his head, and Alex melts into it a little. He really is going to fall asleep again soon. 

For now, though, he revels in being held, in the low rumble of Thomas’s chest, the warmth of the comforter he was mourning the loss of earlier. He tries not to think about John’s reaction and how he was genuinely hurt, about work and what everyone must be saying there, about fucking Burr and his loud mouth. He tries not to think about any of it. 

It’s easier when Thomas’s hand ends up on his neck, absentmindedly rubbing patterns into his skin while they talk. His fingers are featherlight and sweet, like the figs from the other day. (Yesterday? This morning? Whatever.) Thomas is alive and warm against Alex’s skin, and it’s a nice, steady reminder to stay grounded even when he feels like he’s floating away. 

“How’re you gonna tell Madison?” Alex asks, hearing his own words slurring again, jaw heavy with the sleep he’s hurtling towards. 

Just a very fraction, Thomas’s grip on him hardens. Then, he sighs, says, “I’ll send him a letter.” 

Alex wants to laugh. He means to. 

Mostly he just nuzzles into him further, and falls asleep, though. 

\--

Thomas’s nose is sort of perfect. Perhaps it’s more subjectively perfect. Perfect for his face, what with how it’s all angles and square, framed by a mass of curly, well-kept, absolutely stunning hair. His jaw is strong, chin proportionate, cheeks high and delicate. Wide, intelligent eyes. Bold mouth. And in the center, his nose, which is round where it needs to be, sloped at the perfect angle on his face. 

Alex is only fixated on it now because it’s right there, maybe an inch from his face, so close his eyes are starting to hurt from how they’re slightly crossed to look down at it. 

He’s watching Thomas sleep because he’d woken up first, and he’s sort of wrapped up in all of Thomas’s long limbs like his life is depending on holding onto Alex. He looks peaceful in his sleep, but-- 

But his grip is still borderline desperate. And Alex doesn’t want to wake him up. Not when he’s spent the last four days taking such good care of him during his time of need. 

Even if he does have to piss like a racehorse. 

He wriggles just a little. Just to put the pressure of his bladder somewhere else. 

Settling again, he sighs, takes in the smoothness of Thomas's skin, the perfectly manicured beard, the way his lips are full and soft. 

Thomas Jefferson is a man that draws attention to himself before anyone even realizes why they’re looking. He’s beautiful, elegant and confident and screaming ‘money’ and ‘power’ before he opens his mouth. He demands attention.

He demands  _ all  _ of the attention. 

Which is why, Alex muses, they work so well together. It’s why they’ve ended up here at all, probably, because looking back on it, they’d started as oil and water. But eventually you shake oil and water enough and you’ve got yourself an emulsion. Or, in their case, you leave two stubborn, hot-headed, confident men in the confines of a nationally popular political newspaper headquarters and you end up with the two of them sharing an Uber to a shared destination (Thomas’s house) after the company Christmas party because they’d both gotten too drunk off free whiskey and bourbon to realize they were supposed to hate each other. 

And for the first time since they’d met, they just talked. Alex got to see a human side to this man he realized he hardly knew, and in return, he allowed himself to be vulnerable for the first time in a long, long time. 

That was two years ago, and look at where they ended up. 

Alex wriggles again, cursing under his breath when his bladder throbs and his breath gets caught in his throat all at once, burning on the way out until he can’t help but cough. He’s nice enough to bury it into his elbow and not cough directly in Thomas’s face. 

It does a good job of waking him up, though, and Alex feels bad about it for all of ten seconds before he’s whispering a too-quick, “Be right back,” and leaping out of bed to run directly to the bathroom. 

He’s in there for maybe half a minute before Thomas blearily makes his way in, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and pushing his hair from his face. Alex tries hard not to stare more than he already has this morning, but  _ come on _ . 

Thomas is--

He’s fucking hot, alright? He’s hot. From his stupid perfect face to his stupid perfect body to the way he stands to the sound of his voice, gravelly from sleep as he says, “Good morning,” and watches Alex piss. 

“Morning,” Alex breathes, finishing his business and shivering a little when Thomas crowds in close, puts his hands on his shoulders, and presses a kiss to the side of Alex’s head. 

“How are you feeling?” Thomas asks, and Alex doesn’t watch him piss. 

He doesn’t. He swears it. 

He only watches the way he stands, how he’s so...sure of himself, but in an endearing way. 

And he shrugs, brushes his own wild hair out of his face, gathering it all in the ponytail it’s just about completely fallen out of and retying it. “Been better, been worse.” 

_ Horny! _ he almost screams. But it’s unbecoming, so he just bites at his bottom lip when Thomas isn’t looking and leans against the counter, and okay, alright, he watches him piss. Even  _ that’s  _ beautiful. 

“Are you going to brush your teeth, or should I put on a better show for you, first?” Thomas asks, meeting Alex’s eyes with a grin. 

“Shut up,” Alex hisses, cheeks hot as he blushes. In a flurry of movement, he spins to grab his toothbrush. 

He’s in the middle of brushing his teeth when Thomas crowds behind him again, pressing his forehead between Alex’s shoulder blades and his mouth to the curve of his spine there. His hands slide around to the front of him to cup over his chest and hold him in place, and Alex smiles around his toothbrush. 

Thomas is sturdy, strong, built like he’s had to fight to stay afloat his whole life, when Alex is the one who’s spent his life clawing his way to the top. The mouth pressed to his skin is warm and alive, full to bursting with opinions, big enough to shred through anyone’s that counter his own. 

They’re perfect opposites. Alex is small, built with curved edges and soft hands, heavy eyes and a mouth that’s faster than it is big. Where Thomas is built with a hardened, sculpted body, Alex is softer, meeker. 

Thomas is big-- Alex is not. 

And in moments like this, with long fingers digging into his chest and a wide mouth getting every inch of skin it can manage damp with his breath, Alex revels in the differences. 

“Has Dr. Jefferson decided I’m well enough for copulating at last?” Alex asks, going for the least sexy route possible in hopes to get a rise out of him, spitting his toothpaste into the sink for good measure. 

It works, because Thomas snorts indelicately, shakes his head so that his curls tickle Alex’s bare skin. He kneads his fingers rougher, meaner, into Alex’s skin before murmuring against him, “Dr. Jefferson is just saying good morning.” 

“You greet all your patients this way?” And he rocks his hips back, hoping. Sure enough, he can feel that Thomas is hard, and it sends a shiver through him, has him humming deep in his chest. “Not that I’m complaining.” 

“Only the ones I really like,” Thomas teases, but then he’s pulling away, trailing his hand up to Alex’s forehead, and the spell is broken, just like that. 

With an irritated groan, Alex licks his lips, says, “I’m not above begging, you know.” 

“Trust me, I know,” Thomas says. “You’re still warm, and I’d really rather not get sick.” 

“What if I just blew you?” He’s not above admitting he’s a bit of a slut, so if that’s what Thomas wants to hear, he’ll give it to him. Plus, it’s been  _ days  _ that Thomas has strung him along like this, toyed with him, touched him without really touching him. “I can rub off on your leg or something. Come on, just--” and he rocks back again, cups his own hand around his own cock, through his boxers. “Something, Thomas, please.” 

“You’re really this horny while running a fever? I can  _ hear  _ the congestion in your head,” Thomas laughs, but his grip on Alex is a little tighter, a little more desperate. 

He’s whittling him down, and the realization has heat flaring in his guts. 

“God, it would be a sloppy fucking blowjob, Thomas,” he groans, rocking his hips into his own hand, dropping his forehead to the marble counter. He knows it presses his hips back into Thomas, can hear the sharp inhale of trying to resist from the other man. It’s bullshit, mostly, but it still makes Alex warm all over. 

Or maybe that’s the fever breaking. Who knows? 

“You’re disgusting,” Thomas says, and it sounds almost like reverence. “You’re that desperate, get yourself off.” 

Alex whines, loud and unashamed, palms himself a little more seriously, with purpose. And he says, “You’re cruel, you know? It’s going to take a lot of work to make me feel wanted again after this.” 

He’s teasing, of course, but Thomas still trails his hands down Alex’s sides in apology, gives him that much. The palms of his hands are soft, smooth, taken care of, and Alex imagines the way they feel wrapped around his cock, tugging at his balls, fingering him open. 

When there’s a tongue pressed to the back of his neck, hot and wet and sticky, he remembers the feeling of it tracing its way up his inner thighs, how Thomas likes to lick right under the head of Alex’s cock while he gets him stretched, the taste of him in his own mouth. 

“Fuck,” Alex pants into the open air, and he’s begging now. God, is he fucking begging, because Thomas is, first and foremost, a stubborn pain in the ass, and Alex is, first and foremost, a loud-mouthed, brat who gets his way more often than not. 

But not this time, because Thomas never touches him where he wants, just lets Alex rut against his own hand to prove that  _ yes _ , he’s really that desperate for it. Briefly, Alex wonders if Thomas is expecting him to feel embarrassed by this. He wonders if that’s why he’s hard, why he’s lining up the length of his cock with Alex’s ass, nestling it between his cheeks, through two layers of flannel. 

And it’s desperation in Thomas’s hands he feels, too. 

Alex’s free hand is curled in a fist on the counter, next to his face as he fucks into his own palm, making sure to rock back into Thomas as well. It’s unfair, that he’s getting nothing while still giving Thomas everything he can, when he misses how he feels so much. 

He says, “I miss your cock,” breathy and quiet and laced with his upset. 

Thomas just hums, a little sound, breaking at the ends. His mouth is still pressed to the back of Alex’s neck, and he’s draped over him quite dramatically. The pressure is nice, it’s grounding if a little bit too warm. 

“Want you to fuck me,” Alex says, squeezing himself harder through the fabric of his pants, grinding into his palm to chase the feeling, “God, Thomas, I-- You should be fucking me right now, spreading me open in our bed and working your cock inside of my tight--” 

“Shut up,” Thomas says, harsh and hissed through his teeth, and it lights Alex up. 

A spark has been lit, and he moans thickly, says, “Could be-- fuck, you’re so big, you-- I swear I can feel you in my throat, sometimes.” Thomas bites down on his skin, sinks his teeth in around a sharp breath as Alex rocks his hips harder. “Think I could press down on my belly and feel it? Is your cock that fucking big, Thomas?” 

Thomas’s hand slips on Alex’s skin, and for a second he thinks he’s earned himself a hand over his mouth, but instead he--

God, he pushes Alex’s hand out of the way as he hastily reaches into his pajamas and cups over Alex’s cock. His hand is big enough that it very nearly covers him entirely, and that’s-- 

That’s all it takes. 

Alex makes a choked sound, swallows around syllables that get garbled in his throat on their way out, and comes. It washes over him, leaves him heaving and shuddering, and exhausted. 

But god, it feels fucking good. 

It feels so good he doesn’t mind the oversensitivity when Thomas manhandles him so that he keeps rocking into him, choosing to physically use Alex instead of doing any of the work, rubbing Alex’s ass against his cock. And Alex fumbles behind himself with a thick sound to reach for him, getting his hand around the hard line of his cock and adding to the pressure. If he hadn’t just come his brains out, he’d be getting hard again at the feeling of Thomas’s hands digging into his skin, forcing Alex’s body against his own. 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Thomas sighs. “Fuck, Alex.” 

Oh, he’s close. His words are slurring and he’s gripping Alex harder and harder, and when he comes, it’s with heavy breaths and that hand tugging Alex close, crushing the two of them together. 

It’s like being swallowed whole, being this close to Thomas. Always, it’s overwhelming in the best way possible, and Alex tips himself back into the pressure, putting more of his weight on Thomas. 

His mouth is close to Alex’s ear when he says, “You’re a brat, Alexander.” As he stands up straight, he runs his hands down Alex’s sides. 

He’s laughing before he can help himself, uncurling from the line of Thomas’s body and settling back into the natural shape his own takes. He won’t say he feels better, but he feels  _ lighter _ , certainly. The tension he’s been carrying for nearly four days now over this whole ordeal has eked its way out of his body, and he’s left rolling his shoulders and grimacing at the wet spot in his boxers. 

“Could have let me get my dick out, at least,” he teases, slipping his thumbs in the waistband to pull them off. Sticky boxers are the worst. 

Thomas snorts, shrugs his shoulders, and pointedly sheds his own. Unlike Alex, though, he doesn’t bother finding new ones to put on instead, just pulls his sweatpants back on and continues his morning routine. 

“I’ll go make coffee,” Alex says before rushing out the bathroom, mouth going a little bit dry at the image of Thomas shirtless, wearing only sweatpants, the line of his still-softening cock obscene. It’s too fucking early in the morning for him to be this horny, to be frank. 

There’s a soft laugh that follows him out, muddled by the sound of running water and an electric toothbrush whirring to life.  _ Cruel _ , he thinks.  _ Thomas Jefferson is cruel.  _

He makes coffee, and throws some biscuits in the oven for good measure, knowing Thomas will appreciate not having to cook an actual meal for them. Alex realizes he does actually feel better, like maybe his fever is breaking or isn’t that bad anymore. 

And, see, he always gets like this when he’s sick-- this moment of thinking he wasn’t that sick to begin with. The guilty feeling that he’s been nothing more than a drama queen about the whole thing. So he drinks two cups of coffee to get that taste out of his mouth before Thomas meets him in the dining room, smelling a lot like the lotions Alex has used on his own skin a couple of times just to see what would happen. He hasn’t gotten dressed, Alex notes. 

He kisses Alex on the forehead before heading to the kitchen to get his own coffee. 

It’s safe and warm, and Alex has to fight off a thick lump of emotion building in his throat for whatever reason. God, he’s exhausted again. He’s really awful at being sick. He’s-- 

Fuck, he’s kind of freaking out all of sudden, isn’t he? That’s what this is, he supposes. It must be that he’s freaking the fuck out over literally nothing at all. 

And when Thomas makes his way back into the room, holding a plate full of hot biscuits and his mug of coffee, Alex means to say something, but can’t quite manage. The room is closing in on him a little bit. 

“You okay?” he hears, and when he looks up into Thomas’s eyes, he sees concern. Then, gently, “What’s wrong?” 

Alex sniffs, wipes at his eyes and tries for a watery smile. When he fails, he laughs a little roughly, and shakes his head. He shrugs. “Don’t know,” he says, clears his throat. 

“What can I do to help?” he asks, and Alex watches him put the plate and mug down on the table before he’s sliding the chair closest to Alex’s out and moving it even closer. When he sits, he puts a hand on Alex’s thigh, waits patiently for an answer. 

The problem is he doesn’t know what’s wrong. He’s pretty sure he’s okay, that he’s-- He’s feeling better, for god’s sake. Not completely well, but well enough, and this morning has been so wonderful, and, and-- 

And,  _ fuck _ . He’s tired, and he has no right to be. He’s been pampered and taken care of and had an impromptu four-day vacation from work in the middle of a political nightmare. He should be over the moon. 

There’s no reason for him to be feeling like this. 

“I’m not taking advantage of your kindness, am I?” 

It’s not the question he wanted to ask, he doesn’t think, but it’s the one that makes its way out of him, coated in the guilt he’s letting burn him up from the inside out. He watches Thomas’s face go from confused to gentle, and the hand on his thigh cups Alex’s cheek instead before he says, “Never, Alexander.” 

“I mean, you don’t resent me for being so needy, do you? I-- I shouldn’t need to be taken care of, Thomas; I’m a grown man, for shit’s sake.” His hands are a little shaky, and his chest aches with the weight of his breathing. He reminds himself to slow down, take his time. His very atoms seem to want to go, go, go, and everything feels fuzzy all over. 

Thomas’s hand on his skin feels right, and his thumb strokes at Alex’s cheek sweetly. “You don’t  _ need  _ me, and I don’t live in a delusion that you do. And it’s okay to  _ want  _ someone to take care of you.” 

“But--” 

“I’d have said if I was feeling put upon, I promise. You know me, my mouth is too big to keep secrets,” and his thumb presses into Alex’s cheekbone a bit roughly for just a split second as a reminder before he’s caressing the ache away again. “Now, take a deep breath for me, okay? Like this,” and he inhales deeply, taking his time, so Alex mimics. 

When Thomas holds it, nodding his head for Alex to follow suit, he does. He doesn’t stay like that for long, just long enough to fill him up, keep him in one place for a bit. They exhale together, and Thomas walks him through another one, and another, and another, until Alex feels lighter, calmer. 

Steadier. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, Thomas’s thumb running over his lips now, feather-light and nearly overstimulating. And then, once he feels steadier, "Is it a sex thing for you?" 

Thomas grins, sweet and aloof, shrugging his shoulders and tilting his head side-to-side playfully. "It's not  _ not _ a sex thing." 

"Pervert," Alex teases, reaching out quickly and pinching at Thomas's nipple through his shirt. 

It earns him a laugh, throaty and solid, and Thomas swatting at his hands. But then he’s pulled forward by hands on his elbows, and Thomas is smashing their mouths together a bit awkwardly. It takes Alex a beat before he realizes what’s going on, and then he’s melting into the familiar feeling with a sigh. His blood runs warm under his skin at finally,  _ finally  _ getting to kiss Thomas.

He pulls away first to gauge the look on Thomas’s face, and when he finds his face slack and comfortable with contentment, he dives back in for another, moves up and out of his chair to crowd in close. Big hands find their way to his lower back, then his hips, holding him in place before he gets too out of control, licking his way into Thomas’s mouth with a groan. 

Tangling his fingers in Thomas’s hair, he manhandles him just enough to get his head tilted back how he wants it. “Thought I was still too sick?” he asks, breathy and right against Thomas’s mouth. 

Fingers pinch at his sides, but he hums into it, takes his licks with a grin and a shiver, and practically  _ hears  _ Thomas rolling his eyes. “Are you looking a gift horse in the mouth, Alexander?” Thomas asks. 

And when Alex shakes his head, makes it his priority to climb into Thomas’s lap while still pressing their mouths together for soft, sweet kisses, Thomas says, “It’s unbecoming to patronize the person breaking their back to take care of you.” 

“Wasn’t patronizing,” Alex promises, trailing his mouth down Thomas’s neck. “Consider that checking in on the situation.” 

The thing about kissing Thomas is that Alex loves him. And he loves kissing. And Thomas has a good mouth, is good with it, knows exactly how Alex likes to kiss, which is dirty and honest and desperate. He likes the way Thomas’s hands press and knead at his skin like he needs something to ground him. He likes how Thomas always waits for Alex to press their tongues together, but immediately takes over once he does. 

He likes his facial hair rubbing against his skin, the line of his chest under his hands, the sounds he makes in the back of his throat. He likes when Thomas gets a hand on the back of his head and pulls him back in for more when he pulls away. 

He loves this. 

He loves  _ him _

Eventually they have to move. Alex’s thighs start burning, and the chair gets too cramped. So they move to the couch, where Thomas wraps Alex in a blanket and returns the soft, sweet kisses Alex goes looking for every so often during the documentary Thomas puts on for both of them to watch. 

It’s good. 

\-- 

So, they don’t get fired. Alex isn’t even really sure why he was so worried they would, it’s just that they’d hidden this from everyone for so long that it was eating away at him a little bit, he thinks. Creating this false sense of dread in the pits of his stomach. 

But Washington doesn’t fire them. He doesn’t seem  _ thrilled  _ if the wording of ‘fraternizing with fellow employees is typically grounds for removal, given there’s an imbalance regarding positions of powers between parties’ in his email is of any indication, but their jobs are secured for now. 

In fact, they take sick pay they’d both accumulated over time and make plans to go back into work once the weekend passes. Monday morning, bright and early, and Washington makes a point to recommend they just head straight into his office once they get there. 

But that’s for the Alexander that wakes up Monday morning to worry about. 

The Alexander of Friday morning abuses the fact that Thomas is shirtless and a bit uncharacteristically sprawled out on his back in bed, leaving a perfect Alex-sized spot under his raised arm. The line of his neck is stretched out, his body curved away from Alex, and he twitches when Alex rolls into his space. He lines the two of them up, grinning when Thomas groans in annoyance in his sleep, but curls into Alex anyway. 

Alex knows he’s bleary and not really awake, but he still presses his mouth to his chest, warm and wet, and Thomas makes another low, sleepy sound. His eyes are still closed, but his mouth is working around swallowing, avoiding a yawn. 

If Alexander is anything, it’s impatient. And insistent. So he gives Thomas barely a beat of consciousness, watching his eyes flutter open before he’s moving again, pushing the blankets off of them both as he straddles Thomas’s waist. 

It can’t be that he’s still running a fever, right? So that means he’s well enough for sex. He’s good. He’s  _ great _ . 

He’s hard, and Thomas is warm and alive under Alex’s hands, moving to grab at Alex’s hips, on track with Alex’s movements even half asleep. And Alex swoops down to press his mouth to Thomas’s chest again, making his way up the line of his throat, the jut of his jaw. 

He waits until he hears the low hum of Thomas’s approval before sitting back up, looking at Thomas’s heavy-lidded, sleepy eyes, and licking his wet lips. The hands on his hips tighten their grip for half a second, and Thomas says, “I shouldn’t reward you for waking me up because you’re insatiable.” 

God, his voice is low and gravelly with sleep, running through Alex’s veins in thick waves. 

“We haven’t fucked in days,” Alex says, flat and honest, and he drags the length of his erection along Thomas’s abdomen to prove his point. 

“And I could make it days still if I really wanted to, Alexander,” Thomas goades, but he rocks up into Alex, fucks his cock against the crack of Alex’s ass through his boxers. He’s not fully hard yet, but it still has Alex groaning, tossing his head back just a bit. 

He laughs a little bit, squeezes his eyes shut, and shakes his hair out of his face. “You won’t, though,” he says. “I know you won’t.” 

“Oh?” It’s not smart, Alex knows, to challenge Thomas, because there’s about a fifty-fifty shot of him losing. 

When it comes to sex, Thomas can hold out where Alex can’t. Thomas can string him along for hours or days or fuck him open over and over again without letting him come. He’ll finger him open while he’s still waking up in the morning, licking wet, open-mouthed kisses into Alex’s mouth until he’s rutting against Thomas’s leg and whining high in the back of his throat only to plug him and tell him to get up and dressed so Thomas can parade him around some high-end boutiques for three hours, take him to lunch, and refuse to fuck him until they get home. 

Thomas Jefferson fucks like he’s got something to prove. 

And Alex is happy to let him try to prove it. Because Alex? Alex  _ begs _ . He begs with hands and teeth and mouth and anything he can, begs and begs until Thomas either gives or doesn’t. By the end of it he’s either crying or trembling or both. He’s not one for being subtle. 

So, “Yeah,” he says, breathy, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. “You want to fuck me too badly to make me wait for it.” 

“You sound so confident,” Thomas drawls, skimming his hands down Alex’s sides, making him squirm. 

“I can feel how hard your cock is against my ass.” He wriggles, to prove a point, grinning when Thomas hisses through his teeth like he’s trying to pretend otherwise. “You wanna put it inside me?” 

He’s barely got the words out before Thomas is shoving two fingers into Alex’s mouth, messy and sudden, coaxing spit out of him already. His lips feel a bit bruised from catching on his teeth, and his jaw aches from the force of it. It’s fucking incredible. 

“Oh,” he gasps around his mouthful, barely audible, but Thomas grins anyway. 

Those long, thick fingers curl, touching the back of his tongue, and he’s thrusting them shallowly in and out of Alex’s mouth, fucking him with them. It’s-- 

Fuck. It’s got Alex feeling a little lightheaded, chasing the feeling, hips working up and up and up and against Thomas’s body, uncaring about how he looks right now. 

“You’re so fucking small,” Thomas groans, like he’s just realizing it now. “Bet my fingers feel huge in that mouth of yours.” 

Alex nods, widens his eyes and takes what Thomas is giving him. 

"If only I could shut you up at work like this," he says, and Alex feels himself starting to tremble. It's unfair, bringing up that old fantasy, and he knows it. "Or I guess I could, really. Show everyone that the linguistic genius Alexander Hamilton loses his train of thought immediately when he's got a couple fingers fucking his throat." 

And it's like he's proving his point, because he curls them again, pushes down, flutters them for just a beat until Alex feels his throat tighten around the beginnings of a gag that doesn't quite fully form. There's a low chuckle that Alex hears over the sounds of his own pitiful moaning, and Thomas tells him, "I know you think you've earned my cock somehow, but being a brat while you're sick doesn't equal patience, you know?" 

Alex's eyes flutter shut and he rocks his hips forward again, making sure to put pressure on Thomas’s too, to apologize. Then the fingers in his mouth are making slick sounds as Thomas slips them out. 

On a heavy breath, Alex tells him, "If you didn't want a brat, you shouldn't have started dating me." 

There’s a sweet, terrible laugh from Thomas, one that matches the steady thrum of Alex’s pulse in his own head. “I knew what I was getting, don’t worry,” he drawls, trailing his wet fingers through Alex’s hair just to be gross, get a grip on him that Alex can’t wriggle out of. 

It doesn’t stop him from rocking his hips against Thomas desperately, though, and he grins when Thomas sucks in a sharp breath. “Did you, though?” Alex asks, squinting and tilting his head to the side as best he can, shivering at the tug on his hair it causes. Thomas tightens his fingers, gets his other hand on Alex’s thigh. 

“You’d only spent the previous three years screaming at me any chance you got,” Thomas says, and he smiles fondly, like he’s remembering a precious memory. Go figure Thomas would think arguing with Alex is a  _ sweet  _ past time _.  _

Alex takes the bait, though, laughs a little, splays his fingers over Thomas’s chest as he says, “I like to call it  _ flirting _ , thank you.” 

“Mm,” Thomas hums, the hand in Alex’s hair encouraging the rocking of his hips, manhandling him with the pinpricks of pain in his scalp rolling down his spine in waves. “If I’d known it was you begging to be put in your place, I’d have shoved my fingers down your throat a long time ago.” 

“God, can you imagine?” Alex laughs. “The looks on everyone’s faces if you’d have just…walked over and gotten me on my knees for you while I was insulting your very existence because of an edit I disagreed with?” 

Another hum from Thomas, and he moves the hand from Alex’s thigh, presses two of those fingers between Alex’s lips, too, just for a second, like he’s really thinking about it, before he’s twisting and reaching in their bedside table for lube. As he’s blindly digging, “It certainly would have made work more tolerable for me.” 

“Yeah, I fucking bet,” Alex says, voice hoarse from the abuse of Thomas’s fingers. “Who wouldn’t love a blowy in the middle of a stressful work day?” 

“I have a desk,” Thomas says, eyebrows raised. 

And god, they used to be a lot sexier about this, but Alex takes the lube from him with a snort, squeezes some onto his fingers so that Thomas doesn’t have to let go of his hair. The pressure is nice, and he tilts his hips back so that Thomas can get at his hole. 

“I’ll blow you under your desk when Burr gets fired,” Alex says, sighing when a long, thick finger presses into him with no preamble. He mouths absently at Thomas’s chest, humming when Thomas adds a second finger maybe a bit quicker than usual. But it’s good, and Alex is sort of desperate to actually get fucked anyway. 

Fingering is more Thomas’s thing, really. Alex could fuck him with no prep without issue, but he knows Thomas likes watching Alex turn into a wriggling, impatient mess with his fingers inside him, so he doesn’t argue the point. And when Thomas yanks Alex’s hair cruelly, it’s even better, and Alex is left staring at Thomas’s face from a weird angle, throat aching from how it’s stretched. 

“You mention our coworkers by name while I’m fingering you open again and you won’t come today,” he says, voice low and careful, and Alex moans thickly, wriggles his hips back. “I mean it, Alexander.” 

It’s a threat, but not an empty one, and Alex nods as best he can. Thomas must get a kick out of his struggling, because he forces Alex’s head to nod properly before letting him go, slipping his fingers out. 

“Come on,” Alex pants, getting his mouth on Thomas’s skin again, wet and sloppy and looking for any contact he can have while Thomas lines the head of his cock up. The stretch is perfect as he presses inside, insistent and impatient. And Alex hisses a, “Yes, fuck,” between his teeth when Thomas is buried balls-deep inside him at last. 

He’s been waiting for days. 

Fuck, it’s-- 

It’s so fucking nice, to be full, to be close, to, to fuck. He’s missed this, missed Thomas. The press of skin, the feeling of being stretched and close, and no matter how much Thomas cares for him, this is always the best.  _ This  _ makes him feel cared for. 

He’s been pampered and coddled and spoiled all week, but this is the best. 

He says, shuddering around the words, “Fuck, baby, this is-- God.” 

“Good?” Thomas asks, and his voice is low and careful, his thighs trembling against Alex. 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Alex hisses. He doesn’t get sentimental because that’s not his thing, not during sex, but he could write fucking essays about how good Thomas’s cock feels inside of him, how he’ll never get bored with it, how it’s always this fucking good. His whole body feels attuned to him, like he was made for this, made to be fitted around Thomas’s body.

Thomas is firm all over, and when Alex digs his fingers into his sides, he doesn’t flinch. He grinds his hips against Alex, lets him moan and toss his head back before he’s  _ really  _ fucking into him. 

And god, the sweet, fluttering feeling of Alex’s guts at every slide out of him, every smooth slide back inside is fucking incredible. It has his mouth falling open, has his own hips rocking back and forth, searching for more, meeting Thomas’s movements like they’re fluid, one entity, a series of moving parts working towards the same thing. 

He’s too quiet for Thomas’s liking, apparently, because he gets his hands on Alex’s hips and tells him, “Could do this at work. Shut you up this way.” 

“Fuck you,” Alex sighs, tilting his body downwards again, curling in on himself to get his hands on Thomas’s chest for more leverage. 

There’s a hum, then, “Or that.” 

“God,” Alex sobs, rocking his hips against Thomas’s. The slick sounds of their skin is obscene, and he can imagine it echoing around the office. The outraged looks on all their friends’ and coworkers’ faces. 

And-- 

He can’t finish that train of thought, because Thomas’s hand is around the base of his cock before he can think any further. It’s familiar and it’s sweet, a telltale sign that Thomas isn’t going to last much longer. 

So Alex, the absolutely bastard he is, tightens himself around Thomas, listens to the way his breath catches in his throat, feels his thighs trembling all over again. He gasps, “ _ Fuck _ , Alexander.” 

“Thomas Jefferson,” Alex sighs, “reduced to four-letter words by Alexander Hamilton. I think  _ that  _ would be a better show, don’t you?” 

The grip on his hips tightens, and Thomas makes a low sound in his chest. Alex can see the sweat beading up on his forehead, feel the tension in his chest. The desperation etches itself across his face, a tangible presence under the tips of Alex’s fingers. He clenches again, feels his own stomach twist in that familiar way when Thomas curses again, murmurs how fucking good Alex feels. 

Thomas’s hand around his cock makes no move to actually start jerking him off, so Alex twitches his hips up, takes matters into his own hands as it were. 

And god, but Thomas manages to fuck up into him just right, catch him at an angle that leaves him digging his fingers in too much, too hard, has Thomas groaning, fucking up into him again. Alex rocks his hips up, into the heavy pressure of the hand wrapped around him. 

His movement stutters, and Thomas gets a hand behind his head to tug him down to him, smash their lips together messily. He tastes like desperation, like coconut and honey, like the best fucking decision Alex ever made. 

Alex comes with Thomas’s manicured hand wrapped around his cock and the taste of his lip scrub in his mouth, his fingertips pressing bruises into Thomas’s ribs. His hips rock up in jerky, graceless thrusts, chasing that feeling, the fluttering in his guts. 

And Alex knows-- he fucking  _ knows--  _ that because he came first, Thomas is going to drag this out as much as he can. But it doesn’t make the oversensitivity any less jarring. It doesn’t make the feeling of Thomas getting his hands on Alex’s hips and flipping them over so he can bend Alex even further, getting his knees up by his fucking ears to pound into him deeper and harder and-- 

Fuck, he’s pliant and giving, but his body is jerking with every delicate movement, every single thrust into him feels like too much. 

“Like that, baby,” Thomas is panting, murmuring his praise, his thanks, into their bedroom. 

“God, would you just come already?” Alex groans, but he’s still flushed, cock still twitching against his belly. 

There’s a chuckle that comes tumbling out of Thomas’s chest, his fingers around Alex’s thighs tightening until they’re harsh and cruel. “It’s been days, Alex,” Thomas manages to get out, throwing Alex’s words back at him. 

“Fuck you,” Alex whines, limbs going loose at last, body giving in to the onslaught of sensation. “Come inside me, Thomas.”

He plays dirty, clenching down around him and listening for the sharp inhale, grinning when Thomas’s hips stutter. And when he comes, it’s with a curse hissed out on an exhale and Alex’s name shaping itself around his tongue before he can stop it. It’s with his fingers going loose and sweet again, moving to let Alex’s legs fall. Instead, he rubs his palms up Alex’s thighs, wrapping his hand around his cock again, like he’s trying to get him from mostly soft to hard again despite knowing it’s impossible. 

And when Alex bats at him with a scowl, he laughs softly, wipes at the come drying on Alex’s belly with his hand and pulling out as easy as he can. Alex lets his eyes fall shut, body relaxing into the mattress, the whole weight of himself present and accounted for. 

It’s curious when he doesn’t feel Thomas move, but not overly so. Part of him thinks he should open his eyes, see what exactly is delaying the warm washcloth and cuddling that typically comes after, but he can’t be bothered right now. No, he’d much rather be still for a while, feel his heartbeat slowing in his chest, feel his limbs get a little less fuzzy as the seconds tick by. 

Except there’s half a beat of movement where Alex thinks Thomas is finally standing before his right thigh is being shifted so Thomas can trail the hand wet with Alex’s fucking jizz and press back inside him with two fingers. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, and when Alex finally looks at him, eyebrows knitted together, he’s got a smarmy grin on his face, the one that he wears when he knows he’s got the upperhand. 

Alex squirms, feeling exposed and tired and overworked. But when Thomas curls his fingers, he can’t get any of those words off his tongue. Instead, he makes a heavy, indignant sound in his chest and refuses to chase the feeling with his hips, says, “Are you done playing with me yet?” 

“No,” Thomas says. Simple, honest, and Alex respects it. “Answer the question, Alexander.” 

“I feel good,” Alex tells him, and even though it’s curling up around the edges, too sharp in spots, he means it. He feels  _ good _ . “I love you,” he offers, because he does. God, he does. 

And Thomas’s smile shifts into something fond, something sweet. His mouth is sweet, too, when he leans down and kisses Alex like he’s taking him apart all over again. “I love you, too,” he says, right against Alex’s mouth. “Let me play with you some more; I miss getting to play with you.” 

“Fine,” Alex breathes, arching into Thomas’s touch. 

He should really learn to be more careful about what he asks for. 

\--

Of every one of his friends he has to tell that he’s in an adult and serious relationship with Thomas Jefferson, the most difficult is definitely Angelica. 

He knows that, logically. She hates him. Thomas isn’t fond of her, either, and they both have their own separate, valid reasons. 

So he buys her flowers. 

And he blows Thomas before he leaves to go to dinner with her on Sunday, as a consolation for not arguing too much when Alex told him he was telling Angelica and using Thomas’s black Amex to buy them both a fancy dinner. By the time he’s sitting at the table with her, right on time but still not before her, he’s convinced it still wasn’t enough to keep the peace with either one of them. 

Thomas had given him a look over his reading glasses that said they were going to be speaking about this when Alex got home and Angelica’s got her arms crossed so tightly over her chest Alex thinks it must ache every time she takes a breath. And-- 

Fuck, he’s really trying, okay? They should cut him some slack here. 

He’s wincing before he’s even fully seated, placing Angelica’s flowers at the very end of the table and opening his mouth to speak. 

But, “Does Eliza know?” she cuts him off. 

“What?” Alex knows he’s blinking too quickly, his brain not quite quick enough to catch up with the fucking point Angelica is trying to prove here. 

“Well, does she? I mean, you’ve told her everything since you’ve known each other, and suddenly you’re keeping secrets?” 

“Are you mad at me for not telling you or not telling Eliza? I’m confused,” Alex asks, furrowing his brow and waiting for her to uncoil herself from the striking position. The concept of clearing the air is seeming more and more impossible for tonight, and he’s already exhausted. 

Angelica sighs heavily, waits a beat, and then unfolds her arms to place them comfortably in her lap instead, softening her expression. “Me, I guess,” she finally concedes. “But you didn’t have to call me out on it.” 

“Well,” Alex starts, “you didn’t have to immediately draw conclusions.” 

“I hate him, Alex.” There it is. 

“I know.” 

“ _ Thomas Jefferson _ of all people?” And she rolls her eyes, makes a sound of disgust like even saying his name is too much for her. 

He laughs, genuine and honest, leans back in his chair, and tries to piece together exactly what he wants to say to her. 

After a too-long pause, he settles on, “It was weird for me, too, I promise.” 

“How did you two even end up together?” 

Alex takes note of how she starts fiddling, how she starts smoothing out invisible lines in her dress, plucking at lint that isn’t there. She looks around like she’s looking for the waiter, but she’s already ordered their drinks. Alex grabs his and takes a sip to level the playing field. 

“Did you know Thomas is a widower?” It’s easiest to start here, he thinks. Personal information about him that could potentially get Alex in trouble, but it feels necessary. Plus, he trusts Angelica, even if she does hate Thomas with every fiber of her being. When she furrows her brows at him, he barges on, “He told me at the office’s Christmas party two years ago. Both of us were a little in over our heads, and I was still bitter about Eliza and I’s separation, and-- And one minute I’m sweaty and uncomfortable in a group conversation about who’s buying their spouse what gift for the holidays and the next, Thomas has his hand on the small of my back, leading me to an Uber to take my sorry ass home.” 

He pauses. It’s a long-winded story, really, and Angelica doesn’t look impressed. 

“I cried a whole lot,” and he feels his face get hot, “and Thomas put me in my place when I snapped at him about him not understanding what it felt like to lose the person you were certain you were going to spend the rest of your life with.” 

“Oh,” Angelica says, soft around the edges. She was there on both ends of Alex and Eliza’s breakup. She saw how hard it was on both of them when they realized they just didn’t fit together anymore. 

But-- 

“Drifting apart and falling out of love isn’t the same as burying your partner, and Thomas still comforted  _ me  _ when I was feeling sorry for myself about Eliza,” Alex finishes. “So we went on a date after that. I asked him if he wanted to get some dinner one night, to get feeling back in our limbs, and it just sort of spiralled from there.” 

“So it’s been two years, then?” 

“One year of actually calling ourselves a couple. The other was spent figuring out how to handle liking each other through all our previous ire, but sure, I suppose so,” Alex says, and he feels the nervous energy chattering its way through his veins. 

Angelica’s eyebrow arches and she says, “I still think you should have told us. Two years is a long time to keep a secret, Alexander.” 

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” Alex admits, shrugging his shoulders. “It felt like telling people was going to shatter the illusion that it was working, and I-- I really fucking liked him from the jump, alright? It was weird enough for me without outside opinions putting false feelings in my head.” 

Finally, fucking  _ finally _ , she uncoils, sits easier in her seat, reaches out to grab at a menu and shove one in Alex’s direction, too. 

“And you’re going to tell Eliza?” as she’s opening the menu, eyes scanning the first page. “Also, I’m ordering three courses.” 

Alex snorts. “Thomas is paying, anyway. And, yes, I’m going to tell Eliza.” 

She glances at him over the top of her menu, perfectly manicured nails catching the light of the chandelier above them dramatically. 

“Four courses, then.” 

Things unwind from there. They eat, they catch up, they drink too much wine and spend too much of Thomas’s money, and it’s great. 

It’s a really great evening. 

Alex is warm and happy as he’s walking through the front door, and Thomas is in the kitchen, cleaning dishes from his dinner. He smiles at Alex when he sees him, soft and sweet, and it’s too easy to slot himself along the line of Thomas’s body, curling in close and tilting his head up for a kiss that tastes like both of their wines. 

“Should I be expecting another slap across the face at the next public event we’re both at?” Thomas asks when they pull apart. 

“Oh, almost definitely,” Alex laughs, but he runs a hand down Thomas’s torso, the solid form of him already memorized under his hands, but just as comforting as it always is to just feel him being there. Alive and thriving and right there in front of Alex. 

He buries his face in Thomas’s chest, sighing when both of Thomas’s arms come around him, holding him in place. This is good.  _ This  _ is what nobody gets about this whole thing, and what he wishes he knew how to verbalize without feeling uncomfortable about it, like he’s welcoming them into something they shouldn’t be involved in. 

He can feel the vibrations of Thomas’s voice against his face as he says, “Come on, let’s go to bed. Tomorrow is going to be a long day for both of us.” 

\-- 

Turns out, showing up to work as a couple is easier than hiding.

They don’t have to have the Uber drop them off a few blocks away to get coffee only for Alex to leave first, walk to the office, and settle in before Thomas makes his way over. They can just walk together. 

And, as Washington requested they head straight into his office. Alex feels only slightly like a child waiting to be admonished as George tells them that they’re not going to be reprimanded, just encouraged to keep things professional between them while they’re at work so as not to raise any suspicions. 

“Everyone already knows,” Alex scoffs. “There’s nothing to be  _ suspicious  _ about.” 

There’s a raised eyebrow, and Alex feels himself tense before he feels Thomas’s hand on the small of his back, silently telling him to take a breath and steady himself before he says something he’ll regret. 

“Sir, we’re all adults here, I don’t exactly see the issue with the two of us being in a relationship,” Thomas says, succinct and direct and exactly what Alex would have  _ meant  _ to say. 

A heavy pause as George shifts in his seat, slips his glasses off his face. “The issue lies in the drama already percolating around the office, gentlemen. Nobody seems to be able to stop talking about when and where you two may have begun your relationship. So, please, don’t feed the flames. Understood?” 

It settles heavily in his stomach, and Alex nods curtly, not meeting George’s eyes before he’s slipping out of Thomas’s touch and out the office door, shutting it behind him. 

He knew he wasn’t going to like the conversation, or the results of it, but he can feel the tension growing in his shoulders. It’s only that Thomas finds him at his desk, sits on the edge of it as he slams a few things out on his computer.

“You’re going to start popping keys off if you don’t calm down,” Thomas says, and Alex flips him off before scrubbing his hands over his face and leaning back in his chair. “You knew this was coming.” 

The laugh that bubbles out of him is short and bitter. “Yeah,” he concedes, “but it was easier to deal with when I was at home and it wasn’t a problem yet.” 

“It isn’t that big of a deal, Alexander,” Thomas says. “We don’t owe them an explanation.” 

“But they’re only going to get worse.” 

“So let them.” 

“It’s going to get out of control.” 

“Hey,” Thomas says sharply, and Alex looks up to meet his eyes. “You have nothing to defend here, and if you feel like you do then we should talk about it.” 

And it’s-- 

Fuck. 

He’s right. 

“I’m sorry.” Alex leans forward, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes as he hunches over his desk with a sigh. One of Thomas’s hands lands on his back, rubbing in familiar, slow circles. It’s soothing, and he slumps down further, lets his forehead rest on his desk. “I love you,” he murmurs. 

It feels strange, saying it with the office coming to life around them. It’s early enough that not many people are here yet, so it’s just the hum of the air conditioner and Washington’s keyboard clicking as he answers emails. 

Even so, Thomas meets him with, “I love you, too, Alexander.” His hand moves, coming up to scratch at Alex’s scalp for just a beat before it’s gone altogether; and even though Alex knows why, it still stings. This is what George was talking about, he knows, because this is the kind of stuff that gets people talking. 

So he sits up, gives Thomas a quick, not entirely happy but soothed smile. Thomas smiles back, and then his eyes are darting around the office quickly before he’s humming quietly and leaning down to quickly press a dry kiss to Alex’s lips. 

It’s sweet and chaste, but it’s comforting, and Alex’s smile is a little more sincere this time around. 

As Thomas walks away towards his own desk, Alex turns back to his own computer and starts his day, officially. 

It’s easy to get back in the swing of things, of course it is-- he doesn’t miss a beat, really, when it comes to work. His emails have all been categorized already, since he was doing a lot of keeping up when he was home, anyway. It’s really just about falling back into his routine while the tips of his fingers feel like this is new, somehow. 

Things have shifted, haven’t they? Just slightly to the left, but still shifted nonetheless. He’s new, Thomas is new.  _ George  _ is new. Everyone involved in this is new, because their view has changed entirely. Now, instead of the office having an angry, red hue around Thomas and him, a very divisive, sworn enemies-shaped shadow cast over them, it’s softer around the edges. It’s a different feeling entirely, and Alex feels it in every interaction he has all day. 

Nobody really says anything, but the energy is certainly there. He can tell everyone  _ wants  _ to. Burr avoids him, and had he known all he needed to do to make that happen was say he was fucking Thomas, he’d have done that years ago, even before it was true. 

Does it feel a little bit like everyone is muttering about them behind their backs? Yes. Does Alex particularly give a shit? No. And if it were up to him, he’d be drafting out a fifteen page email explaining exactly how little of a shit he gives and exactly how far they can all shove their judgement and curiosity up their asses. 

But it’s not just him involved, and he’s grown as a person, he thinks, since the man he was in his late twenties who  _ did  _ send out an office-wide email confirming he’d slept with John over the weekend, and including details everyone was speculating about anyway. 

Thomas wasn’t impressed then, and Alex doubts he’d be impressed if it was  _ his  _ dick size being blasted on the office email chain. 

So he refocuses himself, buries himself in his job, and ignores the white noise of questions not being asked. 

And by the time the day is done, he feels good, better. The sun is low in the sky and Washington is patting him on the shoulder, telling him to go home, get some rest. He throws in a ‘son’ and winks when Alex rolls his eyes at him. 

“That’s shit’s old, George,” Alex says, as he’s tugging on his jacket, catching sight of Thomas making his way over. All George does is laugh, but it’s good-natured, and Alex is warmed pleasantly. 

When Thomas closes and locks his office, meets Alex at his desk, George gives him a nod, and wishes them both a good night. 

“Goodnight, George,” Thomas says. “And thank you.” 

“Of course, Thomas. I’m glad to see the two of you happy.” And with a genuine smile, he ushers them out, following them on their way out. 

It’s good. 

It feels like home. 

_ Alex  _ feels good. He loops his arm through Thomas’s, and enjoys the walk to the metro, together. 

\--

“Put some clothes on, sleazeball.” The slap on the belly Alex gives him with the back of his hand is hard enough to have him grunting around a laugh. And then he’s swatting at him as Alex steals a slice of bell pepper from the cutting board. 

“Eliza has seen me shirtless before,” Thomas says, offhandedly as he tosses the onions he’s chopped into the pan. 

Furrowing his brow, Alex spins on his heels and looks at him, opening the fridge to grab the tea he’s got made in the pitcher. Sometimes southern charm means a never-ending supply of sweet tea, and Alex can appreciate it. 

“You’ve fucked or something?” 

“So crass, Alexander,” Thomas drawls, but it’s not an answer, and Alex feels his pulse quicken at the thought. “No,” and he deflates. “No, we go to the same gym.” 

“Oh,” Alex says intelligently. “I wouldn’t be mad if you’ve fucked.” 

Thomas snorts indelicately. “I didn’t think you would be.” 

A pause, and Alex pours himself a glass of tea, choosing to be civilized instead of drinking directly from the pitcher like he usually does. They’re having a guest over, afterall, to tell her they’re dating. 

“Should I be offended by that comment?” he finally settles on, shutting the fridge and turning his attention back to Thomas. “But really, put a shirt on. Who cooks without a shirt on?” 

“Someone who doesn’t feel like splashing tomato sauce on their clothes,” Thomas says. “Also, I just showered, so I was air drying. You’re lucky I put pants on.” 

And Alex gives him a look to let him know exactly how lucky he feels. “Sure,” he deadpans. “What did you tell Eliza?” 

“That I was having a couple friends over for dinner, and she should come.” Alex steals another bell pepper, and Thomas says, “Although it’s about to be dinner for two if you don’t quit it.” 

“Make me,” Alex challenges, and slaps Thomas on the ass before stealing a third bell pepper just because he can. He’s little and he’s quick, and he likes it when Thomas is pretend mad at him. 

Fuck, he likes it when Thomas is for real mad at him, too, but that’s a thought for later. To retaliate, Thomas grabs a handful of Alex’s hair and  _ tugs _ , hard and sharp and enough to have Alex gasping way too loudly in their kitchen. Eliza is due to be here in the next fifteen or so minutes, which is not nearly enough time to safely do anything, really. So instead, he lets Thomas pull him into his chest, until he’s got to look up at him, eyes undoubtedly heavy. 

Thomas hums, and Alex can feel it in his own chest. “Go put on something nice.” 

“You ever eat pussy?” 

And it’s--

He doesn’t know where the question comes from, but there it is, and Alex realizes he’s warm all over, that he’s probably only a little less than half-hard. Thomas has a good mouth. 

“Dead wife, remember?” and his eyes are kind, playful, like they aren’t usually, when he mentions Martha. “I’ve never fucked Eliza, Alexander.” 

“You could’ve, though. She’d have fucked you, I know it,” Alex says. He licks his lips. “She’s always liked you, for whatever reason.” 

Thomas’s eyes are still teasing, soft, when he leans in to press his mouth to Alex’s forehead. “Go get dressed,” he says again, only this time he actually lets Alex go. 

The ache in his scalp is only there to mourn the loss of those long fingers curled in too tightly. 

“Fine,” Alex huffs. “But we’re talking about this some more later.” 

As he’s walking away, Thomas calls after him, “There’s nothing to talk about.” 

“Whatever!” Alex calls back. 

He ends up stealing one of Thomas’s shirts, an older, thin button-up that he knows before he even puts it on will be too big for him. But it’s comfortable and soft and a pretty red color, so he doesn’t care. A pair of nice jeans, barefoot, and smelling like Thomas’s favorite cologne, Alex makes his way back into the kitchen right as Thomas is pulling his own shirt back on, the stove set to simmer, and two glasses of red wine already poured for the two of them. 

Thomas eyes him as he’s grabbing for his glass, Alex knows. And he knows what he’s going to say before he even says it: “That’s  _ my  _ shirt.” 

Alex just nods, taking too big of a sip of wine. 

“Did I say you could borrow it?” he asks, and Alex flushes, just a little. He loves this, the teasing, the banter. This is fun for them. “Although, I can’t say I blame you. If I had to wear the polyester and cotton blend garbage you typically wear, I’d be raiding my closet, too.” 

Alex hums a little, smacks his lips as he swallows. “Pretty sure this was on my side of the closet because  _ someone  _ was raised with maids and can’t be assed to keep his shit organized without a little help.” 

There’s a discreet pinch to his thigh and a wide, happy grin spread on Thomas’s face, and Alex gets on his tip-toes to ask for a kiss. Thomas is still smiling into the kiss, his hand finding its way to the small of Alex’s back, fingers spreading, holding him in place. 

It’s nice to be wanted exactly where he is. 

So when the bell rings, signaling Eliza’s arrival, Alex only groans a little bit before pulling away. 

To placate him, Thomas says, “Later, sweetheart,” right against Alex’s lips, warm and thick. It’s a promise, and Alex intends on holding him to it. 

For now, he pours a third glass of wine as Thomas heads to the front door. A little bit of nervousness floods into his veins as he’s recorking the bottle, grabbing his own before making his way towards the living room. It’s not that he’s worried about Eliza’s reaction, just more of that feeling of letting people in that’s always bothered him. 

But this is Eliza. 

This is someone nearly as important to him as-- 

Well. Maybe just as important, but he won’t tell Thomas that. 

So when he finds them, Thomas helping her out of her coat, and that warm feeling from earlier rears its ugly head, he takes another too-big sip of wine for an excuse for his flush and waits. 

“Alexander! What a pleasant surprise,” she says, eyes growing more and more confused. 

“Eliza,” Alex says warmly, stepping forward to hand over her wine glass, pull her in to kiss her cheek. “You look beautiful as ever.” 

She smiles happily, but that confusion is still set in her brows. He clears his throat, takes a step back. “I’ll go check on dinner,” Thomas tells them, and leaves Alex here to answer for her confusion, the traitor. 

“Alexander,” Eliza says again, and this time it’s firm, asking everything she wants to ask. 

His shoulders slump a little bit, the tension draining from him. “Yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” 

Her face is kind and understanding, and Alex doesn’t deserve her. God, he’s never deserved her. When she puts a hand on his cheek, thumb stroking along his cheekbone, he reaches to grab at her wrist, shift her hand so he can kiss her palm. “You look happy. Both of you.” 

“We are,” he promises, mouth right against her skin. She smells of lavender, like she always does. 

“You don’t owe me an explanation. I only want you happy,” she tells him, and he swears he might cry, so he pulls away. 

He straightens himself out, takes a sip of wine. Runs fingers through his hair. 

She looks beautiful. As beautiful as ever. 

“How’s Maria?” he asks, because the last time he saw the two of them, they were in each others’ space, a few drinks in, talking loudly about how lousy men are. 

Her face widens around her smile, cheeks and eyes growing more and more fond. “She’s doing well, thank you. We’ve been spending the weekends together.” 

“Yeah, I figured you would.” He laughs brightly, gestures for Eliza to walk ahead of him, to start making their way over to Thomas in the dining room. “She’s a sweet girl.” 

“She is,” Eliza agrees. “Peggy claims she’s the smartest one in their entire psychology class, so I know she’s got her approval.” 

“And Angelica?” 

“Well,” a pause. “We both know Angelica. She thinks she knows me best of all, and she might, so it takes a lot to win her over.” 

“So Maria’s still scared of her, then.” And although Alex sort of bypassed that particular grilling from Angelica by way of very nearly landing in her lap instead of Eliza’s, Alex knows exactly what kind of games she plays. For instance, Thomas and Alex’s relationship. 

“She prefers to say cautious, but yes,” Eliza says, laughing.

Alex nods with a laugh, light-hearted and polite, and when they make their way into the dining room, he finds Thomas leaning against the chair at the head of the table, three plates of food set out for them. Alex crowds in close, tells him, "Thank you," and pats him on the belly sweetly. 

Thomas's eyes crinkling in the corners is the only response Alex gets, but it's enough. 

They eat. The food is, of course, incredible. The conversation is genuine and comfortable, and Alex realizes how  _ good  _ it feels, this honesty. Letting the people he loves into this. Eliza doesn't skip a beat when Alex reaches over to lace his and Thomas's fingers together on the table when they're all finished eating. Things don't grow awkward when Alex kisses Thomas as a reflex on his way to the kitchen with their dishes. It's comfortable and so fucking  _ nice _ . 

And during dessert, when Thomas pours them whiskey instead of wine to go with the brownies he made from scratch with caramel bits throughout, Alex is sure to compliment him on the food, all of it, just to watch the way his face lights up. Eliza  _ does  _ watch them, then. Probably only because Alex is watching  _ him  _ so intently. But, can he be blamed? 

No. He can't.

Not when he's warmed so thoroughly from food, drink, and company. Not when Thomas's fingers are still laced with his own and it's not a secret anymore. There's nothing he's hiding from anyone, nothing to protect or covet. He only  _ has _ , now. For the first time in his life, Alexander Hamilton does not  _ want  _ for anything. Not food, not money, not power. 

Not love. 

Not affection.

He  _ has.  _

And so Eliza watches them. She watches Alex trace patterns on the back of Thomas's hand with his thumb, watches his face grow fonder and fonder the more whiskey he drinks, curling in towards him without really realizing he's doing it. 

"You're transparent around him," she teases, when Thomas leaves to go to the bathroom. "It's a good look on you." 

"Why, Ms. Schuyler, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were flirting with me," and he's warm enough now that he puts a hand on his chest in mock suprise, even. "There's a perfectly good set of furniture in the living room we could be using, you know." 

Eliza stands before he does, rolling her eyes fondly, and leading the way. Thomas will find them, he's sure of it. And by the time they're both facing each other on the couch, knees drawn up to their chests, leaning the against the back cushions in the perfect picture of comfort, Thomas  _ does  _ find them, laughing loudly at a shared moment. 

Thomas drops a kiss to Alex's forehead before sitting behind him, pulling him in close with a hum. Alex settles in, gets comfortable, and doesn't skip a beat. 

"Thomas says you've seen him with his shirt off," Alex says. He really should try harder to filter what he's saying instead of just being a steady stream of saying whatever it is he's thinking. But these two should be used to it by now, even if Thomas’s loose grip on him does tighten just so at the words. 

Eliza’s eyes widen just a bit, and her cheeks get red around a blush Alex knows she hates. He can't help his grin at that point.

She takes another sip of whiskey and goes for nonchalant when she says, "Me and everyone at the gym, Alexander. Don't tell me you're jealous." 

"God, no," Alex laughs, breathy and probably giving away more than he should be. "No, I was just curious." 

"Curious," Thomas repeats, unimpressed with the conversation. "You're insatiable, is what you are, and I'm not sure Eliza’s girlfriend would care for you trying to goad Eliza’s opinion out of her for your own delight." 

Fingers dig into Alex's side in warning, and he snorts, concedes, "Fine, fine.” He lets a comfortable pause form, and then, “I know you want to ask.” 

Thomas makes a noise of questioning, but Alex shakes his head, nods in Eliza’s direction. When she furrows her brow, he shrugs out of Thomas’s grip, sits up a little straighter. “‘How’d you two end up together?’” he says, lilting his voice up in his best impersonation of Eliza. 

It takes everything in him not to laugh when Eliza rolls her eyes so hard Alex thinks her head might hurt forever. And the  _ look  _ she gives him is hysterical, but Alex bites down  _ that  _ swell of laughter, too. Thomas pinches him, and he wriggles against it with an annoyed sound, swatting at him. 

Eliza clears her throat, settles further into the couch, a petulant look on her face. “So how’d you two end up together?” 

Thomas snorts loudly, indelicate, so unlike him that it finally has the laughter bubbling out of Alex in waves, and Thomas buries his in Alex’s shoulder along with his teeth. 

“Assholes,” Eliza mutters, reaching out to tug on Alex’s hair in retaliation. “I wasn’t going to ask, you know!” 

“Of course not,” Alex says, and he means it, “but it was sitting on the tip of your tongue, and I figured you should get the same experience everyone else got.” 

“Ah, so you’ve told Angelica.” And god, but Alex adores her. She’s perfect, just not perfect for him. 

This time when he laughs, she’s laughing, too. 

“Thomas, you weren’t there, were you?” she asks, and Alex feels Thomas’s curls hit his neck when he shakes his head. 

“I let Alexander handle that on his own. My credit card was involved, though,” and he sounds only slightly irritated as he says it, so Alex takes it as a victory. “I have a feeling things wouldn’t have gone so smoothly had I been at their little dinner party.” 

Eliza makes a sympathetic noise. She was there the infamous night of Angelica full-palm slapping Thomas in the face for an ill-timed joke he made. Alex was, unfortunately, not at that benefit. He would have loved to have seen it happen, if only for his own sick pleasure. Thomas would let him hit him, he’s sure. 

Maybe he should ask. 

“Oh, Thomas, I’m sure she’s going to learn to love you like the rest of us have,” Eliza says, ever the pillar of optimism. 

Alex, on the other hand, lives in reality, and tells her, “I don’t know about that one, Betsy. She was still pissed after four courses at Marcel’s, and two bottles of wine.” 

“It probably had more to do with you not telling any of us, Alexander. I’m sure it had very little to do with Thomas.” 

Oh, to be so seen. 

“How are you doing?” she asks, and Thomas’s hand is suddenly on his stomach, holding him close again. “You were sick recently, weren’t you?” 

“Close to death,” he teases. “Oh, Eliza, it was terrible. Me, on my sick bed, and Thomas--”

“ _ Thomas _ ,” Thomas says, “was playing nurse.” 

Alex hums, smiling wildly. “I’m feeling much better now, thank you.” Then, “Turns out, Thomas is a pretty good nurse.” 

“Big family,” Thomas says, shrugging his shoulders, and he twists, until he’s sitting a bit more normally on the couch, reclined a little, letting Alex relax back against him.

“You have siblings?” Eliza asks, and Alex doesn’t hesitate before chipping in with, “ _ Nine _ .” 

He can practically hear Thomas roll his eyes when he says, “Thank you, Alex. What else about me do you want to brag that you know?” 

“Your d--”

“More whiskey, Eliza? I think I’ll get some more whiskey.” He really makes like he’s pushing himself up on his elbows, but Alex drops himself down against him harder, which isn’t enough to really do anything if Thomas actually wanted to get up, but he still sinks back into the couch with a gentle laugh.

Eliza does offer Thomas her glass, though, and Alex as well, letting his hand trail along Thomas’s thigh as he stands to go get them refills. 

And only once he’s walking away does Eliza make a small sound, getting Alex’s attention, and she tells him, “He’s good, isn’t he?” 

Oh, she’s buzzed. She’s good and buzzed, cheeks flushed, hair a bit of a mess, and Alex can’t help the whoop of laughter that punches its way out of him. She puts her hand on his chest and tosses her head back with her own laughter. 

“God,” Alex says, groaning a little, “he is, Betsy. Ask, because I won’t tell you otherwise.” 

She bites at her bottom lip, still trying to suppress her laughter. “No, I won’t objectify your boyfriend like that, Alexander. I just have my curiosities, that’s all.” 

“Harmless,” Alex assures her. He very nearly brings up his own  _ curiosities  _ from earlier, but tries hard not to think about it again and get in over his head. 

Her hand is warm and soft when she puts it on his forearm, rubbing her thumb along his skin. 

Alexander is lucky. 

He’s the  _ luckiest _ . 

\--

“Will you eat me out?” 

In all fairness, it’s been three days since he’d brought it up, since Eliza came over and they all had a really pleasant time. So, truthfully, the fact that the question catches Thomas so off-guard that he quite literally chokes on the coffee he’s made himself despite it being nearly nine at night, is less Alex’s fault than Thomas undoubtedly thinks. 

Nevertheless, Alex still pats Thomas on the back like a good boyfriend and ignores his cock, which is getting hard already, just at the idea. 

“Arms up,” he says, offhanded, because he remembers his mom telling him that as a child, when he was choking on the phlegm in his chest. And, cool, his boner is gone now. 

Thomas obeys, putting his mug on the bedside table and turning to glare at Alex as he coughs through the burn. It takes him a couple minutes, but he catches his breath, and when he does, he looks at Alex with wide eyes and a, “What the fuck, Alex?” 

“Well, will you?” 

They’ve done a lot of things together. Thomas has even eaten him out a couple times, but not--

Not how he  _ wants _ . 

He can’t stop thinking about Thomas eating pussy. Bless his little bisexual heart, he wants Thomas’s mouth sloppy and wet and eating him out like his life depends on it.

He’s too caught up in his thoughts to realize Thomas is rolling over, hovering over Alex. 

"Why are you so fixated on this?" he asks, and Alex didn't really expect to be questioned about it. So when he squirms a little, uncomfortable, Thomas leans down to press their mouths together and settle the situation down a bit. "Are you really that obsessed with my mouth, Alexander?" 

With a grin, Alex reaches up to touch Thomas’s mouth, dragging the tips of his fingers over them, not quite daring to dip inside just yet. “It’s a good mouth,” he says. 

Thomas does the work for him, sucking two of Alex’s fingers into the wet het of his mouth, tongue pressing between them obscenely. He hums, eyes fluttering shut for a second before he’s pulling away, letting them fall, slick and hot, out of his mouth again. Alex’s pulse is fluttering, his stomach is squirming. 

“Pretty sure we could find someone with a vagina to sleep with us,” Thomas says, low and thick. Alex swallows hard around a desperate sound, too embarrassed at being this worked up at the idea to let Thomas know yet. “I could show you what you’re so curious about.” 

His cock is hard, and Thomas finally lowers himself down onto Alex, resting his upper body weight along the line of his body, spreading his legs to slot himself between them. And really, all this position does is gives him an ease of access to the sensitive skin of Alex’s stomach. The second he gets his mouth on him, Alex is moaning too loudly. His cock is pressed into Thomas’s chest now, pointedly ignored as Thomas sucks marks into Alex’s soft parts. 

Alex gets a hand in Thomas’s hair, just for the contact, lets his other hand rest on his own chest. The contact is grounding, feeling the solidity of his own body while Thomas teases him the way he is. It’s unfair, really, how he’s playing with Alex like this, mouth so, so wet against his skin, but not where he wants it. 

“Come on,” he groans, rocking his hips up and trying very hard not to pull Thomas’s hair. 

When he looks down, Thomas is looking at him, too, glasses crooked on his face, lips slick with his own spit, face cracking open around a cruel smile. “Ask me for it again, Alexander.”

He can feel Thomas’s voice against his belly. It’s unfair how good even that feels. Even more unfair when that damn tongue dips into his belly button, weird and new and leaving Alex open-mouthed panting into the room, hips rocking up, searching desperately for contact. 

“Ask me, baby,” Thomas says, quiet and serious. 

And Alex is trembling already, just a little, breathless and trying his hardest to get as much contact with Thomas as possible. His mouth is barely moving when he murmurs, “Eat me out.  _ Please _ .” 

Thomas’s tongue is in his belly button again, for just a beat, before he’s licking a line down to Alex’s cock, mouthing over him through the fabric of his briefs. It’s good, it’s hot and damp and fucking good, and Alex cants his hips up desperately with a mewl. 

By the time Thomas is wriggling the fabric off Alex’s hips, he’s soaked through the entire front of them anyway, and the cool air on Alex’s overheated skin makes him hiss. But he’s not uncomfortable for long, because Thomas wraps a hand around the base and guides his cock into his mouth in one fell swoop, engulfing him in warmth. 

That fucking  _ mouth _ \-- god. 

God! 

Alex bucks his hips up with a sob, earns himself a tug on his balls for the rudeness, but he doesn’t even care at this point. “Thomas, please,” he tries. 

He wants-- 

He  _ wants _ . And he did what Thomas wanted him to, asked for it again, and he’ll beg if he has to-- his mouth starts to work around the syllables, but he knows he’s slurring through them, breaks them off at the edges before he can fully form real words, and Thomas is moving off of his cock, his hand pushing at Alex’s thighs until he’s bending uncomfortably. 

Between one plea and the next, his knees are by his knees and Thomas is humming, his hands hold him open in a way that’s got Alex going red at the ears. His eyes are a little wet, his body thrumming in time with the ringing in his ears, and-- 

And,  _ god _ . 

_ Fuck _ . 

Thomas licks a wet stripe across his hole, unabashed and with purpose. He lets Alex’s legs drop down around his shoulders, uses his hands to spread him open instead, and Alex groans, drops his head down against the pillows heavily. 

“God, Thomas,” he says thickly as Thomas seals his mouth over his hole. 

There’s pressure and then suction, and it’s so fucking much all at once. He feels a flare of heat, hears Thomas make a pleased sound. There’s the wiggle of his tongue against Alex’s skin, trying to press inside, and, and, and. 

And it’s fucking  _ incredible _ . The slick sounds of Thomas’s mouth is nearly as loud as Alex is. It’s everything Alex wanted. 

His cock is leaking against his belly, ignored for now, because he’s focusing on this, the feeling of being spread open so Thomas can lick and suck at him. He gets his hands on Alex’s hips, bracketing him in place so he can’t thrust up, can’t do anything but take exactly what it is Thomas wants to give him. 

The suction of Thomas’s mouth is unlike anything he’s ever felt, and he’s working his tongue into him as best he can. Alex didn’t know what to expect when he asked for this, wasn’t sure if the actuality was going to be anything like he’d fleetingly imagined it would be, but it’s got him a little floaty, grappling at Thomas’s skin like he’ll die soon if he doesn’t get some sort of leverage. The tips of his fingers dig into Thomas’s forearm before he’s carding one hand through his hair and holding him in place as he wiggles his whole head, tongue laving over Alex’s hole. He groans against Alex’s skin, and Alex tugs at his hair with a gasp, shifts until he’s cradling the back of Thomas’s skull and pressing him firmer to him. 

It can’t be comfortable, and his jaw has got to be aching, but Alex doesn’t care. Fuck, he doesn’t  _ care _ , he just wants, he wants-- 

He’s so close, just from this, but he can’t  _ come  _ from just this. And he can’t get his jaw to work around any words right now, and he can’t get his fumbling limbs to move so he can wrap his own hand around his cock. So he’s left with this desperation trembling through him, dangling over the very edge of a mind-blowing orgasm, rutting against Thomas’s face without realizing what he’s even doing. 

Thomas keeps sucking at him, pressing into him with the very tip of his tongue when he tries to work a breath into his lungs. The sounds are loud, echoing, cavernous, and Alex thinks he’s decorating them with his own sounds, but he can’t be sure. 

“Fuck,” he gasps, and it’s choked off. “Fuck, touch me.” 

There’s a hand on him in a second, just as desperate as he feels, fingers somehow slick and somehow perfectly tight, just how he likes it, and he’s coming right as Thomas is managing to wiggle his tongue deeper inside of him. 

The sound that punches its way out of him is deep and thick and loud, emptying his lungs until he’s sucking in a huge breath, choking on a sob as his body clenches and twitches around his orgasm. 

He thinks he’s crying. 

He might be laughing. 

An arm tossed over his eyes, he feels Thomas fumbling around, no doubt getting on his knees and pulling his own cock out to jerk himself off. Alex would offer his assistance, but he can’t move. Instead, he slurs around, “Come inside me.” 

“What?” Thomas gasps. 

“Just--” and Alex groans, exhausted. “Hold me open with the head of your cock. Jerk off inside of me.” 

“Fuck,” Thomas says intelligently, and then there’s the blunt pressure of the head of his cock at Alex’s hole. Spit isn’t slick enough for it to be perfect, but it’s still good, and Alex makes a heavy sound as he sinks inside _ just enough _ . “Oh my god, Alexander,” Thomas chokes out, and Alex can feel him jerking himself off, quick and familiar. 

“Oh my god,” he says again, like it’s all his tired tongue is capable of right now. Alex clenches down around him, to see if he’ll say it again, but he doesn’t. All he does is makes a wounded sound, hips fucking up into him just enough to let Alex know he’s close. 

“You’re not fucking me, Thomas,” Alex scolds. “Just come inside me. Come on, I want you to.” 

He lets his arm fall to the bed, willing to let the light of their bedroom flood his eyes again. And oh, it’s worth it. 

It’s worth it. 

Thomas looks wrecked, face screwing up for a few beats, as his hips stutter in betrayal, and then falls slack as he comes with a harsh groan. 

Thomas doesn’t collapse onto him, but he does lower himself down gently, carefully as he pulls out. And then he’s resting his weight on Alex again, as they come down. 

Alex feels wet. He feels open and vulnerable in the best possible way. 

He sleeps heavily that night, sated and happy and full. 

\--

In the morning, Thomas makes them breakfast. 

“It’s going to rain today,” he says, passing Alex his second cup of coffee. 

With a smile, Alex says, “Okay. Thank you,” and steals a piece of sausage from Thomas’s plate. 

Thomas steals a cherry tomato from Alex’s plate. 

“I packed us lunch,” Alex says, looking up from where he’s scrolling through the news on his phones. “Just a sandwich and some chips. I fit them both in one lunchbox; figured we could have lunch together for once.” 

Thomas drinks a third of his coffee in one sip, eyes crinkled in the corners with a smile as he does. 

It should be noted that Alexander Hamilton is insufferably in love. 

He is well aware of that fact. 

  
  
  



End file.
